Crux Ansata
by Shipperx
Summary: Because non-core Scoobies are special too. And because, darnit, I'm going to give Spike a happy ending. . .even if it's not one he's expecting. (Wesley and Anya get happy endings too.) An AU (*WAY* AU) Season 7
1. Mourning

TITLE: Crux Ansata  
AUTHOR: LAWard  
RATING: PG-13 (at least for now)  
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Never mine and if they were I'd be nicer   
to them than Mutant Enemy.   
SUMMARY: Because non-core Scoobies are special too (especially   
the ones I like). And, darnit, Spike is going to get a happy   
ending even if it's not the one he's expecting.  
SPOILERS: Finale spoilers... twisted to fit my own evil   
designs(so don't take the spoilers too seriously. I made   
up my own ending and purpose to it all)  
FEEDBACK: If you want to give it, I can take it.  
AUTHOR NOTES: If I was choosing a sountrack for this   
chapter..."Mourning" by Tantric  
  
  
  
CHAPTER ONE  
  
Firelight cast shifting patterns onto stone walls, highlighting   
and obscuring ancient symbols as a voice said, "I am Temu. I came   
into existence in Nu before the Pillars of Shu had been created--  
"  
  
"And I thought William the Bloody Prat's poetry was awful."   
  
Spike paced the width of the chamber, his boots making no sound   
on the sand as he moved from one corner of the room to the other,   
doing anything to avoid looking at the creature he had traveled   
to this place to find. It was easier to concentrate on his   
surroundings, on the low, wide room with its massive columns and   
darkened doorways, on the deep shadows cast by the torchlight and   
the scent of musk and smoke in the air -- anything but the   
unmoving face of the battered statue standing in the center of   
the room. Talking to it made Spike feel like that artificial boy   
wishing to the Blue Fairy in that Spielberg movie Dawn had   
insisted on seeing last summer. She said Jude Law was 'hot.'   
Spike said the boy was stupid.  
  
He glanced at the statue, wondering if it could read his   
thoughts. And if it could, how could he tell? Its stone   
features, scarred by the passage six thousand years, stared   
impassively into the darkness, unmoving and unexpressive. Its   
nose was missing and its pendulous beard had been hacked away,   
but only the eyes mattered anyway. The eyes glowed with eerie   
light -- violet, indigo and green. "I am the lord of two lands."  
  
=Not the great and powerful Oz?=   
  
"I am the registrar of --"  
  
Spike's patience ran out. "We've done this bit all ready."   
  
"This is the ritual. This is the way."  
  
"This is bloody boring."  
  
The omniscient presence lost its Darth-Vader-more-powerful-than-  
thou composure. "Shesmus! This is why your kind is not allowed--"  
  
"We've done this bit too. Not allowed. Not supposed to. What   
can I say? I'm a rebel."   
  
Rebel or traitor? Spike wished he knew. In fleeting moments of   
honesty Spike admitted he had no idea what he was doing, what he   
was wanting, or why he was here. He didn't understand his   
motives -- which was bloody ridiculous because they were *his*   
motives. He should understand them even if no one else did, but   
Spike admitted he didn't understand anything any more. His world   
made no sense. His choices made no sense. He was grasping at   
straws and notions and anything that might put an end to the   
confusion boiling inside him.   
  
Was this a mistake? Would this be one more disaster in his   
unending list of disasters? Spike would be the first to admit   
this trip to the Dark Continent was not the culmination   
of a plan but an act of impulse and desperation. It was the only   
choice he had left.  
  
The creature's eyes brightened, becoming pure white light, then   
dimmed to the previous phosphorescent green. "If you want to be   
Ptah--"  
  
"Who said I wanted Ta? What is Ta? I told you what I want and it   
bloody well isn't something I'd say if I buggered off for tea."  
  
"I know what you want."   
  
"What I *earned.*" Spike lowered his brows and frowned in what he   
knew was an intimidating glower. "Let's not forget the fiery   
trials and torture. I think my coat was singed."   
  
"So be it, Shesmu. What you earned."  
  
"Better." Searching for a distraction, he lit a cigarette, took a   
deep drag and released a smooth, even stream of smoke. It calmed   
him. "Bloody well get on with it." Spike resumed pacing.  
  
"Certainly. Where was I?"   
  
"The Pillars of Shu."  
  
"Of course. The Pillars of Shu which dwelleth in Khemenu."  
  
"Have any names that don't end in a sound of disgust?"   
  
The creature did not react. "I am he who cannot be repulsed. I   
am yesterday. I am to-day."  
  
"Hurry it up a bit. I didn't bargain on this taking forever."  
  
"QUIET!" The being's earthshaking voice caused dust to rain down   
from the ceiling. "Have you no patience? You wished to be Ptah.   
You earned the boon. Now let me finish!"  
  
"Fine then." Spike dropped his cigarette and stamped it out.   
"No reason to be all tetchy."  
  
The entity continued its introduction or incantation or whatever   
it was it needed to work its mojo. It added titles such as Lord   
of Amentet and the Scribe of Ani. It spoke of the 'Lake of a   
Million Years' and the 'Great Green Sea,' and it ended by saying,   
"Make the word of Amentet true in the presence of the Tchatcha on   
the night of the battle with the Saibu fiends and the day of the   
destruction of the enemies of the Neb-er-tcher. Make the word of   
Amentet true on the dawn of the Senti for Heru-khent-en-Ariti."  
  
The creature paused, leading Spike to think it expected a   
response. "Uh, yeah, sure." Spike had no idea what he was   
agreeing to but it seemed to satisfy the misty glob of   
energy who now nattered about "things made of Eternity, and   
things made of Everlastingness."  
  
Spike looked down, idly noting his Doc Martens had seen better   
days. They were worn and scratched and, after considering the   
nasty gash on the left toe, he decided they had seen better   
decades.   
  
"Shesmu. . ."   
  
He should look into finding a new pair. After all, the Slayer   
managed new leather pants and cashmere sweaters despite being   
dead broke. Surely, he could work out something.  
  
"Shesmu!"  
  
Spike lifted his head. "Sorry." Apologies did not come easily to   
the soulless, but Spike decided it was best not to piss off the   
unimaginably powerful more than was strictly necessary. "You do   
tend to rattle on." Ah hell, pissing creatures off was what he   
did best.  
  
"Shesmu, approach."   
  
Spike moved to cross the room. It should have been easy. There   
were only a few feet of floor separating him and the statue, but   
the moment Spike took a step he experienced some strange kind of   
horizontal vertigo -- which was a horrible contradiction in   
terms, and well he knew it, but it fit.   
  
The room appeared to stretch . . . only it didn't stretch at all.   
Objectively speaking the room stayed exactly the same. It only   
*felt* like it was moving, like the distance between where he   
stood and where he wanted to go expanded even as he moved   
forward.   
  
=What the bloody hell?= This felt strange. This felt . . .  
  
This felt like walking down a corridor filled with cobwebs,   
passing through gossamer barriers whose partial remains clung to   
him in successive layers. Only it wasn't the handiwork of   
spiders clinging to him, but thoughts and memories.  
  
He saw his father stretched across a massive mahogany bed. Wine   
velvet drapes blocked the daylight spilling through the windows   
as candles guttered in pools of white wax. He could see gold   
guineas had been placed over his father's eyes and his mother sat   
sobbing into a linen handkerchief.  
  
"Mama?"  
  
She looked up, a startled expression on her tear-stained face   
before reaching for him, clutching him tightly to her breast.   
"William."  
  
He was a child again, filled with the lilac scent that had clung   
to his mother's hair and the feel of black bombazine beneath his   
cheek. He heard the rustling of her crinolines and the choking,   
sometimes hiccupping sound she made as she cried. "He is gone,   
William."  
  
"But Papa is here. He would not leave us."  
  
"He is gone and can never--" She stood, leaving William behind   
as she crossed the bedroom to throw open the draperies. Light   
flooded the room blinding him, leaving him to see his mother only   
in dark silhouette. "I am nothing without him."  
  
He ran to her, throwing himself at her skirts and wrapping his   
arms tightly around her legs. "I love you, Mama. You're not   
nothing. I love you. . ."  
  
William remembered squirming beneath the headmaster of   
Charterhouse's impatient stare. "Finish your recitation,   
William."  
  
"A gentleman never insinuates evil that he dare not say out. He   
has too much good sense to be affronted by insults. He submits   
to pain, because it is inevitable, to bereavement, because it is   
irreparable, and to death because it is his destiny. . ."  
  
There had been a party where he had overheard a woman say, "Have   
you heard? They call him 'William the Bloody' because of his   
bloody awful poetry." And Cecily Addams had descended the   
stairs, a vision in lavender and white. When she had sat beside   
him on the settee he had been acutely aware of the way a single   
chestnut-colored curl had caressed her cheek as she asked, "Your   
poetry. It's. . .they're not written about me, are they?"  
  
"They're about how I feel."  
  
"Yes, but are they about *me*?"  
  
Later Drusilla had approached him in a hay and dung scented   
stable. "I see what you want. Something glowing. Something   
glistening. Something --" She had paused, looking startled by   
the voices which whispered in her head. " -- effulgent. Do you   
want it?"   
  
"Yes. God, yes." And she had touched him, taken him, possessed   
him.  
  
Passion. Bliss. Pain. Hurt. It had *always* hurt. There had   
been a tugging. . .a tugging in his mind and in his chest.   
Pulling. Pulling so hard it snapped. Something snapped.   
Something broke, leaving him feeling. . .  
  
It wasn't peace. It had never been peace. It was freedom and   
surcease from pain. Exhilaration. Exultation. Strength. Power.   
Rage.   
  
Rage had flushed Angelus' features. "Remind me, William. Why   
don't we kill you?"  
  
And Drusilla's childlike laughter had filled with demented glee.   
"The king of cups expects a picnic, but today is not his   
birthday."  
  
Other memories surfaced--salt and soy and blood flavored with   
rice wine, the forlorn yet strangely peaceful face of a Slayer   
when the battle had been lost.   
  
Triumph. Accomplishment. Success.  
  
Houdini and Valentino. Flappers, the Ziegfeld Follies, and   
bathtub gin. Cigarettes and sex and dark movie houses. Drusilla   
petulantly demanding a new doll.  
  
"Wicked you are," she had whispered late one night. "Wicked and   
cunning and kind."  
  
"Kind, love?" He had been torn between affront and surprise.  
  
"A kind like no other." Spike had smiled and nuzzled her ear,   
making her sigh. "Neither here nor there, but all in between. It   
hurts you and drives you. Makes you do things you shouldn't."  
  
"I do things I shouldn't because I'm bad."  
  
Dru had cupped his cheek and stared into his eyes. "Poor thing.   
You have no place to be. No one to belong to."  
  
"I have you, pet. You're all I need."  
  
But her attention had strayed. "Look, young lovers. Let's have   
them for dinner."  
  
White linen covered tables and Cotton Club jazz. Billie   
Holiday's whiskey-soaked voice filled the darkness. "I thought   
for awhile that your poignant smile/was tinged with the   
sadness of a great love for me/Ah yes, I was wrong/Again, I was   
wrong/Life is lonely..."  
  
Screwball comedies. Boris Karloff as Frankenstein. A boat trip   
from Calais as they departed Vichy France. Bombs over London.   
Humans fleeing down Charring Cross Road. The humans were right   
to fear.   
  
Spike grabbed Dru's hand as her face lit with odd ecstasy. "Can   
you feel the chaos?" she asked. "Isn't it grand? It feels like   
the end of the world."  
  
"It could be the end of us, pet, if we're not careful."  
  
A high-pitched whine ended with an explosive percussion causing   
bricks, glass, and dust to fly through the air. Drusilla   
screamed and Spike stared with startled disturbance at the   
sight of wood splinters embedded into the wall.   
  
"'Bout time, you discovered we're in danger," he muttered while   
wrapping his fingers tightly around Dru's. He dragged her   
through a doorway and down stairs to where all manner of   
Londoners huddled in an Underground station looking at one   
another with terrified eyes.  
  
War and peace. Liverpool mop-topped four.   
  
"It's a mini-skirt."   
  
Dru's dark eyes widened with dismay. "Oh no, I couldn't wear   
that."  
  
"It's the middle of the twentieth century, Dru." He wrapped his   
arm around her, snuggling close, angling his hips suggestively as   
he tangled his fingers in her hair. "You'd look smashing."  
  
"'Tisn't decent."  
  
"We're evil!"  
  
"Miss Edith would not approve."  
  
They had drained a pair of hippies over Jim Morrison's grave,   
adding the boys' blood to their offerings of alcohol and   
mescaline. Dropping their corpses over the tombstone, Spike   
deviated from his path of destruction to examine their new-  
fangled eight track player and lost himself in the dead poet's   
slurred words. "Strange days have found us/strange days have   
tracked us down/they're going to destroy/our casual joys/we shall   
go on playing or find a new town."  
  
CGBG and the Summer of Sam. Acid washed jeans, safety pins, and   
Ultra Light Blonde #4. A Slayer's coat taken in token and   
tribute.  
  
"Killed another Slayer, you did." Dru had been so sure even   
before Spike had said a word. She had circled him saying in low,   
dire tones, "They'll curse you for that. Hold you and claim you   
and make you their whipping boy."  
  
"Not me, love."  
  
"Yes, you. . .and not you. Strange creature you are." Dru   
touched his coat. "So dark." She touched his head. "And so   
light." Suddenly she pulled away. "What *are* you?"  
  
Prague. And daylight was coming soon. The night was over and   
there was a crowd on their heels, a crowd that knew what they   
were or at the very least suspected. He had to find Drusilla. How   
had he lost her? Then, he heard laughter which sounded delighted   
and pained. "Dru?"  
  
Within a courtyard behind an archway of rusticated stone, Spike   
found a handsome young priest with his neck crooked in a way   
which said he was quite dead. Drusilla sat next to the corpse,   
half draped over it, laughing and crying all at once. A cold   
wave of dread washed over Spike as he approached the scene.   
There was blood on the ground. . .and not just the priest's   
blood. Dru was bleeding as well. A bright river of scarlet ran   
from the gash on her arm and across her face. The priest had   
gotten his licks in. The sign of the cross was burned into her   
forehead, a stake protruding from her chest. The weapon had   
missed her heart by less than an inch.  
  
Spike could hear people coming, footsteps running down the   
street. Voices cried murder and monsters and death. "Dru, we've   
got to go!"  
  
She looked at him blankly and didn't seem to hear.  
  
"Pet?" Spike knelt and rested his hand on her shoulder. Dru   
screamed. She screamed and screamed. It was an ear splitting,   
horrifying sound. "What has the bastard done to you?"   
Spike noted her welts, blisters, and blood and tenderly touched   
her ruined face. Something burned his hand. =Holy water too?=   
  
"He tried to drive the demon from my soul. Said words and   
prayers. I hurt, Spike. Disappearing into thin air. Do you see   
me fading?"  
  
"You're not going anywhere, pet."  
  
"What do you see?" She pushed at the corpse, which toppled down   
the cathedral's steps to land with a dull thud, the motion   
sloughing most of the remaining skin from her hand leaving her   
more red, raw and damaged. God, what had the priest done? "Not   
up to you."  
  
Dru struggled to sit, to pull herself aright. "Stupid man," she   
railed at the dead priest. "What else can I be? There's nothing   
else in me!"  
  
She rose, trying to stand, and it was a painful sight. Drusilla   
was weak as a kitten, and unsteady on her feet, and Spike could   
hear the angry voices drawing closer. The night was full of   
shouts, threats, and screams. Shaken, she wobbled, collapsing   
almost before Spike could sweep her into his arms.  
  
"The angel will come for me," she said softly. "Black heart and   
heavy brow."  
  
"No angel, pet."  
  
She looked Spike dead in the eyes. "Things will change."  
  
A road sign toppled beside the road. Home, sweet, home.   
Pounding music and he saw *her* early one night.   
  
The Slayer had moved with the music, young, lithe, and strong.   
He had watched her dance inside the club and later with the vamp   
outside the door. Spike had introduced himself and had almost   
been polite. Hunter and prey had met face to face and neither   
was really sure who was who.  
  
"Tell you what," Spike had said. "As a personal favor from me to   
you, I'll make it quick. It won't hurt a bit."  
  
"Wrong," Buffy had answered. "It's gonna hurt a lot."   
  
She always had been clever when she wanted to be.  
  
Later, Joyce had stood over him, a lioness protecting her young.   
"Get the hell away from my daughter!" And later still, Angelus   
had mocked, "Things change, Spikey, got to roll with the   
punches."   
  
Spike had fumed with impotent fury because he had been trapped in   
a chair, and he had heard noises made in other rooms, sounds made   
by Angelus and his beloved Dru--traitorous sounds and sighs   
accompanied by the smell of sex.   
  
Spike remembered with a smile the way Buffy had looked at him   
with shock and disbelief after he had punched a cop and   
announced, "I want to save the world."  
  
Then on another night in another year he had sat forlorn and   
defeated with Willow at his side. The young witch had been   
nervous and frightened as he confessed, "Dru said I'd gone soft.   
Wasn't demon enough for the likes of her."  
  
Joyce had nodded with understanding. "Well, she sounds quite   
unreasonable to me."   
  
Joyce had been such a nice lady. She had offered him   
marshmallows and hot chocolate and had listened. No one had   
ever listened.   
  
But the vision of Joyce's kind face was replaced by the memory of   
Buffy's sneering one. She had pushed him to the ground, stood   
over him, and tossed money in his face. "You're beneath me."  
  
But Bit, like her mother, had listened too. She had gazed at him   
with big blue eyes, wanting to hear his words and stories,   
wanting to know about *him*--what he thought, what he knew, who   
he was. A beautiful little girl was his Bit. He liked her.  
  
"You don't even know what feelings *are*," Buffy had spat with   
contempt.  
  
Then Dru had returned, offering a path of escape that he had   
refused. . .sort of. "Poor Spike. So lost not even I can help   
you now."  
  
Joyce had died, making death real.   
  
"She never treated me like a freak."  
  
"Her mistake," Harris had said through clenched teeth.  
  
And Buffy had died, making death personal.   
  
But in Sunnydale, miracles happened. . .or at least black magic   
did. She returned and turned to *him.*   
  
"I can be alone with you."  
  
She had said one thing and he had heard another. She had kissed   
him and told him, "I was depressed. That's all it was, okay?"  
  
Blind, foolish wanker that he was, Spike had thought he'd known   
her, thought he'd known the kind of girl she was. He'd believed   
he'd meant. . .something, that there was still such a thing as   
hope.   
  
"A man can change."  
  
"You're not a man." Buffy had hit him. Hard. She'd driven him   
to the ground. "You're a thing."  
  
But their dance hadn't ended there. It had all become more   
complicated than that. She had taken him, taken what he had been   
so willing to give. Her eyes had widened and her lips had formed   
an astonished 'O,' and Spike had thought she'd seen him. Then   
morning came and reality with it.  
  
"Last night was the end of this freak show." She had been so   
insistent. "What do you think is going to happen, Spike? We're   
gonna read the paper together? Play footsie under the rubble?"  
  
Anger and impatience had fueled him. "So what? You go back to   
treating me like dirt until the next time you get an itch you   
can't scratch?"  
  
"It was a mistake." And she had cut him to the quick. "You were   
just convenient."  
  
Convenient? He was the bloody least convenient thing in her   
world.  
  
"Only a complete loser would ever hook up with you." Harris had   
looked so incredibly self righteous as he said the words, as self   
righteous as Buffy when she had stood in a shadowed alley and   
screamed, "I am not your girl!"  
  
Buffy had hit Spike over and over again, hard, harsh, punishing   
blows. She had been merciless. "You don't have a soul! There's   
nothing good or clean in you. That's why you can't understand!"   
He had been lying bloodied on the ground, not fighting back but   
absorbing the impact of her fists and her words. "You're dead   
inside! You can't feel anything real! I could never be your   
girl!"  
  
She had meant it. Why had he not allowed himself to see that   
she meant it?  
  
"Tell me you love me," she had said.  
  
"I love you. You know I do."  
  
"Tell me you want me."  
  
"I always want you. In point of fact, I -"  
  
"Shut up."  
  
She had told him it was over, that being with him was killing   
her. Buffy had left him behind in the shadows as she walked into   
the light of the sun.  
  
Sunlight blocked his gong to her. Her expression had been cold   
and withdrawn, telling him more clearly than her words. "You're   
not a part of my life."  
  
Spike had protested. He had tried to make her understand. "But   
you won't see it. Something happened to me. The way I feel about   
you. It's different. No matter how hard you try to convince   
yourself it isn't. It's real."  
  
"I think it is, " she had conceded. "For you."   
  
But not for her, for her it was a 'thing,' something left unnamed   
because she was ashamed of what she had done, ashamed of him and   
of herself. It had been written across her features as she and   
Harris and Anya had talked over his head as if Spike wasn't there   
at all.  
  
"You let that evil, soulless thing touch you," Harris had yelled.   
"I look at you and I feel sick because you had sex with *that.*"  
  
Buffy's gaze had filled with hate, all of it reserved for *him.*   
She hated him for telling the truth. She held him in contempt   
for doing what she had ordered. Spike had tried to move on. He   
had tried not to care. He had tried to change, to do, to be   
whatever the bloody hell was necessary to just make her, to make   
anyone *see.*   
  
He was real. He existed. He was not just a thing.  
  
He had wanted to apologize for his mistakes. He had wanted. . .  
  
"No, Spike, stop!"  
  
He had wanted to hold on, just to hold on, to not lose   
*everything.*  
  
"Spike!"  
  
"Oh, God, Buffy. I didn't. . ."  
  
"Because I stopped you. Something I should have done long ago."  
  
What had he done? How could he have done it? And if he was   
*only* what she thought he was, why did he care?   
  
Buffy was there whenever he closed his eyes, screaming, yelling,   
crying, looking at him with contempt. He couldn't escape, not   
the thoughts, the feelings, or this. . .this stabbing pain in his   
gut. It wouldn't go away, and it wouldn't stop. It was killing   
him. It had to end. If his feelings weren't real then take them   
away. If they could not exist then purge them because they   
burned in his chest and behind his eyes. Rip out these emotions   
because they felt like guilt, remorse, and love...and that was   
impossible.  
  
These feelings were not real. No one heard them or saw them.   
They were trees falling in the forest that made no sound.   
  
They were not real so kill them. Kill them dead so they would   
stop tormenting him, stop making him dream of things that never   
were and could never be, stop making him long for something that   
was out his reach, something he shouldn't want and could not stop   
wanting. Just make it stop, because it wasn't what he was   
supposed to be and he couldn't   
be anything else.   
  
He was nothing.  
  
"You are Ptah."   
  
Startled Spike looked up at the damaged, blank-faced statue with   
its glowing eyes. Its deep, resonant voice dragged Spike out of   
the nightmares of the past and into the present, into this smoke   
filled hall.  
  
Then Spike felt heat. It swirled around him. It permeated the   
air. It permeated *him,* burning him, scorching him. . .   
incinerating him. Oh, God! What had the bloody bastard done?   
This wasn't what Spike had wanted, this was heat and light and   
pain and. . .what the hell was this?  
  
Agony crashed down upon him, weighting him, crushing him,   
bringing him to his knees. Spike screamed. The sound filled his   
throat and emptied his lungs. It echoed through his mind,   
obscuring all thought, emotions, and ideas. There was nothing   
left, only pain and heat, darkness and light, whiteness and black   
and the sound of his own screaming.  
  
  
  
TBC. . . 


	2. Coughing Up Feeling

TITLE: Crux Ansata  
AUTHOR: LAWard  
RATING: PG-13 (at least for now)  
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Never mine and if they were I'd be nicer to   
them than Mutant Enemy.   
SUMMARY: Because non-core Scoobies are special too (especially the   
ones I like). And, darnit, Spike is going to get a happy ending even   
if it's not the one he's expecting.  
SPOILERS: Finale spoilers... twisted to fit my own evil designs(so   
don't take the spoilers too seriously. I made up my own ending and   
purpose to it all)  
FEEDBACK: If you want to give it, I can take it.  
AUTHOR NOTES: If I was choosing a sountrack for this   
chapter..."Nobody Loves You" by Garbage  
  
****************************************************  
CHAPTER TWO  
  
The suits had her. Wasn't hard to figure that out. Who else could pull this off? A lone   
prisoner shoved into an empty exercise yard with the permission of the warden took   
strings being pulled, bribes being paid. It took knowing your way around a bureaucracy,   
which meant it took the Council.   
  
A beefy, blunt-faced guard pushed Faith through a pair of metal doors into the sunlight,   
blinding her and keeping her off balance long enough for someone to grab her from   
behind—a few someones, actually. They wrestled her to the ground, shoving her face   
against the concrete. As one guy straddled her hips and jabbed his elbow between her   
shoulder blades, another grabbed her ankles. Unlucky guy. She kicked him, breaking his   
jaw. She heard him yell as she twisted her body, throwing the first guy off her back. She   
even managed to climb to her feet before the third guy rammed a hypodermic needle into   
her arm, injecting her with God only knew what. Pain, then numbness, then paralysis   
washed through Faith in a cold wave.   
  
What was the drug? Was she going to die? Would they kill her?   
  
Faith had an urge to snort or laugh. Of course they would kill her. . .if they wanted to.   
The question was, did they want to?   
  
You never could tell with the Council. They had rules and things. Faith tried to   
remember if she had broken any lately. A prison brawl where she had defended herself   
against being raped didn't break the rules. . .did it?   
  
Come on! What was she supposed to do? Play passive and be victimized? Faith couldn't   
see how the Council could expect that, but what did she know? She had never understood   
Watcher logic or Watcher rules. Faith wasn't even sure she was supposed to. After all,   
she was just the Slayer, just the council's weapon. =Don't think. Obey. Kill this.   
Destroy that. But don't hurt this thing over there because that would be *wrong.*"=   
  
A lot of rules --'morality' they called it -- but Faith knew they considered her morality   
shot to hell a long time ago. She had crossed the line, become the enemy, and the   
Council had washed their hands of her. Everyone had washed their hands of her except   
Angel and Wesley.   
  
So why were the suits here? What did they want? It sure as hell wasn't a tour of a   
California state penitentiary. This wasn't even one of the nicer ones. You'd never find   
Robert Downey, Jr. or Winona Ryder in this dump -- only gray walls, stained concrete   
floors and those 'other' people, the ones whose names no one knew or cared about.  
  
For years the Council had been happy to watch her rot in jail -- not that Faith complained.   
She didn't deserve to complain. Given her options, prison looked pretty good. It was   
better than being executed--which was possible if the Council decided it was the 'right'   
thing to do. The only reason Faith was still alive was because of B, the Council's chosen   
one, their golden girl, their hero. As long as the Council had Buffy they could afford to   
have their spare Slayer in jail.   
  
Oh shit. B. Were they here because of B? Had she died? Again? Buffy made a habit of   
not letting death keep her down, but even the golden girl's luck had to run out some time.   
  
Something moved deep inside Faith. Was it sadness? How could it be sadness? She   
didn't even like B. . .much. She couldn't grieve for B. She couldn't. It was wrong. It   
had to be wrong to have this rock of emotion lodged in her throat for someone Faith had   
screwed over so many times and in so many ways. It was hypocritical. So she couldn't   
be sorry for B. She must be sorry for herself, sorry that with B dead her own number   
must also be up. . .which wouldn't bother Faith if she wasn't meeting death laying on the   
ground, held by three men in suits as they pumped some narcotic into her veins.   
  
She was a Slayer. Yeah, sure, she was a *rogue* Slayer, but she was still a Slayer. And   
a Slayer fought. . .things. . .and stuff. . .monsters. She was a monster but there were   
others. . . there were bad guys. . .guy? What was that guy doing? That needle looked. .   
.ow. It. . .ow. Hurt. Dark. When did it become so dark? Black. Cold. She was   
supposed to die on her feet taking out some Big Bad. She wasn't supposed to die in some   
blurry-minded haze. This day sucked.  
  
* * *  
  
Faith came to in the back of a van. Everything was moving, and she wanted to roll over   
and empty the contents of her stomach in a projectile way. She fought the urge, not   
wanting to give the suits any sign of weakness. They might use it against her. So Faith   
hid her nausea, ignored her clammy palms, and, when she found the strength, opened her   
eyes.   
  
Okay, maybe not a van. Maybe it was an ambulance or something. It was hard to tell. It   
mostly looked like the interior of a van with the windows blacked out, only there was a   
bench running along one wall and some electronic equipment and wire storage bins   
running down the other. The bins were full of weapons. In short, it looked like a vehicle   
a serial killer would own, and, just to complete the atmosphere, when Faith tried to move   
she discovered she had been strapped to a gurney using leather cuffs and straps.   
  
=They must think I'm Hannibal Lecter. =  
  
Faith hoped she looked angry. She really hoped she looked angry because she didn't   
want to look scared.   
  
The men in suits sat on the bench while a blond woman with hair scraped back in a tight,   
anal-retentive bun and a superior, pinched-face expression knelt by Faith's side. "There   
is no reason to be anxious," the woman said with a crisp British accent. "Everything is   
under control. All will be well."   
  
"Yeah right, bitch." Faith cringed at how weak she sounded. It sucked the intimidation   
factor right out of her bad attitude.   
  
The woman shifted and avoided Faith's direct gaze. "It will take some time for the drug   
to wear off."  
  
"Lucky you."  
  
"There is no call for belligerence."  
  
"Consider it a bonus."  
  
The woman huffed. "Honestly. . ."  
  
Honestly, what? Faith didn't think the woman knew what the rest of the sentence was   
supposed to be. She was just saying something -- anything -- to break the silence.   
=Haven't lost my touch,= Faith reassured herself. =I frightened her. That'll help when I   
make a break for it.= Then Faith remembered her restraints, the leather cuffs at her wrists   
and ankles. She wasn't going anywhere.  
  
The Watcher pressed her lips together, thinning them as she adjusted her glasses. "Those   
were necessary. We needed time to speak with you, to gain your cooperation—"  
  
"Drugging me and strapping me down doesn't scream consent and cooperation."  
  
"We broke you out of prison."  
  
"I noticed."  
  
Anger flashed in the Watcher's eyes. "We could send you back."  
  
=Or worse.= The words were unspoken, but they definitely hung in the air. There was   
always an 'or worse,' and in this case 'or worse' involved permanent death. Speaking of   
which --  
  
"B?" Faith asked softly and, almost to her shame, with genuine concern.  
  
The woman frowned.  
  
"Buffy, the Slayer. " Faith knew she sounded shrill and she hated it. She was supposed   
to sound like she didn't give a damn. She *would* sound like she didn't give a damn.   
"Did Buffy bite it? Is that why you're here?"  
  
The Watcher didn't say anything. She didn't need to. The answer was in the way the   
muscles worked in her narrow throat before her snippy voice lost its cool composure.   
"We need your assistance."   
  
Faith rested her head and closed her eyes. She'd been right. Buffy had bought it, and the   
Council needed a replacement killer.   
  
"Miss Summers was beaten and. . ."  
  
Need a killer? Knew where to find one. Let her out of her cage. Point her in the right   
direction. Go get 'em, girl. Faster pussycat, kill, kill. Good kitty. . .or was it bad kitty?  
  
". . .her killer is still at large. . ."  
  
Something inside Faith's chest knotted and sank to the pit of her stomach. It was heavy   
and it ached and when she ignored it, the thing clawed at her gut. Any second now it   
would pop out of her chest leaving a gaping, bleeding wound like that creature in Alien   
because that kind of emotion didn't belong inside her. She was Faith--cold, heartless,   
fearless Faith. She couldn't be sorry, and she couldn't be scared. She couldn't be icy with   
dread.   
  
The female Watcher clasped her hands together in prim, ladylike fashion. "I want to   
make you an offer."  
  
"Let me guess. It's one I can't refuse."  
  
"Well. . .no. I am afraid you can't. You must understand our options are limited. We   
need a Slayer."  
  
=And I'm the only one you've got. . .unless you kill me.= "So what's the offer? You   
give me a get-out-of-jail-free card as long as I work for you?"  
  
"Yes, if you agree to have a Watcher and if. . ."  
  
=I live that long.= After all, B *had* been talented. If something had taken out B, that   
same something could take out Faith.   
  
The Slayer lifted her chin, reminding herself she had always known where she stood with   
the Council. She was a killer and must be punished. She was the Slayer and must be   
saved. . .or at least preserved until they needed her, needed her skill for the kill. It was a   
skill they loathed and treasured, a skill that brought contempt to their eyes and offers of   
freedom to their lips.  
  
We'll set you free, if you kill for us. We'll kill you if you don't. Nice set of choices.   
Whatever Faith had intended by her voluntary incarceration was secondary to the   
Council's need for her to kill. . .or die. Maybe both. Two kitties, one stone. They had   
lost B, the rebel, to this fight. But Slayers were disposable creatures. Call in the second   
string and send Faith against the monster. If she bested the boogeyman, great. Council   
wins. Monsters lose. If Faith lost, one more problematic Slayer out of the way. It was a   
win-win situation for the suits.  
  
So what was she going to do? Die at the hands of pinch-faced, know-it-all, holier-than-  
thou pricks with sticks up their butts? Nuh-uh. There were better ways to go. A big, no-   
holds-barred-battle against something she could punch, kick, and rage against sounded   
pretty good. She'd even be doing it for the light and right which probably wouldn't mean   
much in the end but, hey, Faith had sort of promised to try for redemption to make up for   
all the wrongs she'd done.   
  
"Am I walking into an apocalypse?" Not that it would make a difference. She would go   
anyway. It only seemed right. Then again, what did she know about 'right?' Strike   
'right.' Walking into Armageddon made cosmic sense. Help with an Ascension, pay with   
an apocalypse. There would be symmetry to that.  
  
The Watcher shook her head. "We do not believe an apocalypse is imminent. Miss   
Summers averted that catastrophe."  
  
So it was a case of 'beat the apocalypse, lose the war .' Buffy had saved the world, only   
to lose herself. "What do you want me to do?"  
  
"Be the Slayer."   
  
And take out the Big Bad. "So untie me and tell me who or what I'm supposed to kill."   
  
There had never been another choice. Faith *was* the Slayer, the chosen one, blah-di-  
blah-blah-blah. Biting it while following her calling was the best offer she was ever   
going to get. . .and it *was* better than staring at gray walls looking at an endless list of   
boring days.  
  
The Watcher released Faith's restraints and looked increasingly frightened the closer   
Faith came to being free. Faith wondered if the woman would scream if she said, "Boo."   
The Slayer actually considered doing just that as she sat up and massaged her wrists. "So   
what's your name?"   
  
"You may call me Ms. Chartley."  
  
"Well, Ms. Chartley, what's the 4-1-1?"  
  
The Watcher handed Faith a picture. "This is who you must track down and kill."  
  
Faith blinked. "You're shitting me. You've *got* to be shitting me. Willow Rosenberg?   
You want me to kill little, wallflower Rosenberg?"  
  
"She's a powerful black witch and a murderer."  
  
"No way."  
  
"She killed the Slayer."  
  
Which couldn't be right. . .could it? Little red witch became a Big Bad, killed her bestest   
friend in the whole wide world? Something didn't compute.   
  
"Evil is a powerful thing. You of all people should know that."  
  
=Oh yeah, rub it in. I went all evil and apocalyptic. Tell me I'm bad as you point me   
toward who to kill.= Faith glanced at the picture in her hand, at the petite red head's elfin   
features and irritatingly chipper smile. "So you fell off the high white horse you rode in   
on, did you, Will? Bet it hurt."   
  
The photo didn't answer, and the ache in Faith's gut increased.  
  
"She killed the Slayer and at least two others."   
  
=And don't you sound detached about it. One Slayer down, but that's no problem.   
Replace her quick.= "Two others?" Faith asked.  
  
"Alexander Harris and Warren..." The watcher squinted at the paper in her hand then   
handed it to one of her companions. "Can you make out the last name?"  
  
The Alien was scratching again, threatening to make Faith bleed before it burst from her   
chest. "Willow killed Xander and B?"   
  
It was beyond comprehension, beyond even the limits of Faith's cynicism. This was a   
great sucking pit of awful. =How am I supposed to do this?= Faith wondered. This was   
like kicking puppies or drowning kittens, something that would make even the hardest   
heart balk. =And what hat am I supposed to wear?= Black, because she was killing   
Willow, someone who had once tried to be her friend, or white, because the Council   
commanded the moral high ground and this was *their* plan? Faith didn't know.  
  
The van came to a halt. =Now what?=  
  
Ms. Chartley looked anxious. "Um…You most probably wish to be armed."  
  
"Yeah, sure." Armed to fight Willow? "Hey, Hear-No-Evil, See-No-Evil, and Speak-No-  
Evil, make yourselves useful. Hand over the weapons."  
  
The three male Watchers looked startled at being directly addressed, and the one with the   
swollen, purpled jaw gazed at Faith resentfully.  
  
Faith crossed her arms. "Unless you want to fight your own battles."  
  
They handed her a crossbow, a sheaf of arrows, a switchblade, an axe, and a knife.   
  
It was all relatively standard Slayer gear. She pocketed the switchblade, slung the strap   
attached to the crossbow and arrows over her shoulder, tested the weight of the axe in   
her hand, and examined the knife. The knife *wasn't* standard issue. It was silver, the   
real kind not just the shiny color. It had a thin, crooked, razor sharp blade, and the handle   
was embossed with strange ancient symbols.  
  
"It is the dagger of Am-mit," one of the male Watchers nervously explained.  
  
Did it matter? Faith searched through the storage bins until she found a sheath for the   
blade and strapped it to her thigh. =So now I'm suited up like Lara Croft except. . .=  
  
"Take off your blouse," she ordered the female Watcher.  
  
"Excuse me?"   
  
"Unless you want me looking like a prison escapee, strip and hand me your blouse."  
  
Ms. Chartley looked horribly embarrassed.  
  
"Oh, come on!" Faith stripped off her own shirt. "I'm sure you've got appropriately   
starched underwear under there."  
  
"Turn around, " the female Watcher ordered the three stooges. Seeing that it would be   
difficult for the men to turn around on the narrow bench she amended her request to: "At   
least close your eyes." She nervously unbuttoned her blouse revealing a very lacey, very   
sexy, nude colored bra.  
  
Faith arched an eyebrow. "Why, Ms. Chartley, you have hidden layers."  
  
The Watcher grabbed the orange prison shirt out of Faith's hand.   
  
Faith shrugged, and, once her new shirt was on and weapons were back in place, she   
decided she was ready as she would ever be to meet the Big Bad. . .even if she was still   
struggling to believe the Big Bad was Willow.   
  
Ms. Chartley handed Faith a cell phone. "We will reconnoiter the area—"  
  
"Reconnoiter?"  
  
"We will search the general area -- surreptitiously of course -- while you. . ."  
  
"Hunt?"  
  
The Watcher grimaced. "We want you to stay in constant communication."  
  
"Is that practical? I'm a Slayer, not Dana Scully."  
  
Ms. Chartley's blank expression spoke of a profound ignorance of pop culture references.  
  
"Mulder, Scully, evil bureaucratic conspiracies, romance by cell phone--any of this sound   
familiar?" Faith had thought the show was popular in England. Hell, they'd watched it   
in prison.  
  
The Watcher took the phone and entered a sequence of numbers that caused one of the   
three stooges' phone to ring. She handed the cell back to Faith. "Constant   
communication."  
  
"Right." After all Faith was supposed to be trying to reform herself, to be a 'good girl'. .   
.or. . .uh. . .*some* approximation thereof. Of course Faith realized she could never   
actually *be* good. She'd lost that title a long time ago -- if she had ever had it in the   
first place – but even if she wasn't 'good,' surely she could manage to make a right   
choice. If that 'right thing' was to carry around a cell phone so that a Watcher wouldn't   
freak, Faith figured she could suck it up and comply with orders. "Okay, lines of   
communication will stay open."  
  
The Watcher slid open the van door, and it was like one of those National Geographic   
moments where a wild animal was suddenly set free and it hesitated to go. It wasn't that   
the animal didn't *want* to be free. It was just that having been caged for so long, it had   
grown used to limits and confined spaces. It felt comfortable, easy, safe. Out there was   
the big bad world, a world of decisions and mistakes to be made.   
  
Faith cautiously – and still somewhat disbelievingly – emerged from the van. One foot   
on the sidewalk then two. The door slid closed behind her, and she was free, free to turn   
left or turn right, free to choose, free to --  
  
"If you run away, we will find you." The illusion of freedom was shattered by the   
Watcher's voice. "We released the Slayer from prison, not a killer."  
  
Faith sniffed. =And you can tell the difference in what way?= She didn't say that into   
the phone. She didn't say anything into the phone. She simply straightened her   
shoulders and started walking.  
  
It was dark in Sunnydale. A blue-black sky and crescent moon hung overhead, and   
Faith's Slayer senses began to sing. This was what she had missed, the warm wind of the   
California night, the adrenaline rush of imminent danger, the anticipation of the hunt.   
Only this time Faith wasn't hunting the unearthly or the undead. She was hunting a   
person she remembered as a saccharine little girl in goofy clothes, someone harmless,   
someone nice, and the joy Faith felt in her freedom was destroyed by the knowledge of   
what she must do.   
  
"Where do I start?" Her voice was solemn as she spoke into the phone, but as soon as she   
had asked the question Faith found her answer. She stood in front of a shop whose   
windows had been smashed. Shards of glass littered the sidewalk, and yellow police tape   
formed an X over the door. A sign proclaiming "Magic Box" hung crookedly from the   
awning. "No need to answer. I think I figured it out."  
  
Pulling down the tape Faith pushed open the damaged door. It looked as though a bomb   
had gone off. Candles, beads, and unidentifiable but most probably magical substances   
littered the floor. How were you supposed to know St. Johns Wort from Motherwort?   
And what was wort anyway? Faith didn't know, and was fairly sure she didn't care, but   
stray thoughts had a strange way of wandering through her head when she was alone and   
had nothing to distract her.  
  
Glass cracked under her feet as she surveyed the dark interior of the store. No one was   
around, and no one had made any effort to clean up the mess. It was a catastrophe area   
where no one had yet found the strength to face the aftermath. Books were scattered   
everywhere, on the table, on the check-out counter, on the floor. . .everywhere but where   
they should be -- on the book shelves. Most lay open, a few had their pages torn out, and   
a couple had their covers and book bindings ripped off, but nothing was here. . .at least   
nothing which could explain what had happen. The disaster area, while eye catching,   
wasn't particularly informative.  
  
Pushing aside the 1960s retro-style blue bead curtain, Faith moved into the back room   
then opened the back door. It led to the alley. All the important stuff in Sunnydale   
happened in alleys.  
  
Faith took a shuddering breath. That's what wandering thoughts did for you. They   
dragged up bad thoughts, bad memories, and bad . . . things. An alley in Sunnydale was   
where she had proved everyone right, where she had proved once and for all that she was   
wrong, that she was bad, that she was worthless. Crossing that last line had only taken a   
moment. She had turned and shoved a stake into a beating heart. She'd killed a man.  
  
Faith still remembered the sensation of that first *real* kill. She remembered because it   
hadn't felt any different. Bone, muscle, flesh--a vampire had those too. She knew the   
exact amount of pressure needed to drive her weapon home. She'd honed that skill. She   
knew how to attack with deadly force, and driving a stake through a vampire's heart felt   
exactly the same as plowing one through a living man's chest.   
  
"Have you found anything?"  
  
Faith startled at the sound of the Watcher's voice on the phone. There was good   
reception, too. "Nope, nothing here. I'll just. . ." Keep going. Keep moving. Like a   
shark trolling the waters she had to move to live. If she stood still and thought too much.   
. .well, thinking? Not good.  
  
She emerged from the alley to walk down Main Street. It had been years since she had   
been in Sunnydale, though she doubted that much had changed. Kids were still stupid.   
Adults were willfully blind. Monsters still lurked in the shadows. Some things never   
changed.  
  
The Bronze was up ahead. She could hear and feel the low thrum of the bass though she   
couldn't make out the melody of the music being played. As she drew near the club's   
entrance she gazed into the faces of strangers, young strangers -- innocents being led to   
the slaughter because she sensed the presence of predators as well. Was this boy for real   
or was he a monster in disguise? Was the girl laughing and leading him into the shadows   
just a girl? If Faith shot her would with the crossbow would she bleed or disappear into   
dust? She was a Slayer. She was supposed to see and know, but there were so many   
faces and so little time. How was she supposed to distinguish?  
  
Light fell over the boy's features. Oh, good, bumpies. Faith raised aimed her crossbow.   
She liked it when things were clear and easy. Pull the trigger and the vamp was dust.   
The girl who had been at his side looked shocked, then frightened. Perhaps the chica   
wasn't a complete idiot. Brushing back her hair with her hand, the girl composed herself   
and disappeared through the doors of the club.  
  
"They must be desperate to send you."  
  
The Slayer froze, then turned to find Willow standing behind her. Only the witch looked   
nothing like Faith remembered. Willow's clothes could have passed for traditional   
Faithwear—black and a lot of leather. Her hair was also black, and not the natural kind:   
more Elvira Mistress of the Dark meets evil Miss Clairol. Even Willow's eyes were   
black, and for a moment Faith could do nothing but stand and stare. What had Willow   
done to herself? Was this Willow at all?  
  
The witch's lip curled in a sneer. "So how was prison?"  
  
"Boring, gray, deadly dull." Faith shrugged. "It was prison. Probably isn't supposed to   
be a barrel of laughs."  
  
"That's because you were bad and must be punished."  
  
"Something like that, yeah."  
  
"And are you here to punish me?"  
  
Faith looked at the empty crossbow in her hand. "Sorta looks like I was drafted."  
  
"*You*? You can judge me?" Willow sounded disgusted, and Faith couldn't really   
blame her.  
  
"I don't judge. I just. . ."  
  
"Kill."  
  
Oh, so Willow *had* gone bad. She'd learned how to strike where it just might hurt.  
The witch circled Faith, her movements graceful and slow. "Do you think you can?"  
  
"Can, what?" Faith adopted her 'I'm a bitch -- don't mess with me' pose. She hated   
having her weak spots exploited. "Kill you? Didn't we just establish that I'm good at   
that?"  
  
Some shadow of feeling crossed Willow's gamine features. "It's harder than I thought."   
She met Faith's dead even stare. "And easier."   
  
"Yeah, it's easy. Too easy." Faith remembered the girl she once knew. "You didn't   
mean to do this."   
  
Willow didn't answer but walked into the alley. "Doesn't matter now. It's done."   
  
Faith followed. She recognized this part. Willow was setting the scene, the final   
confrontation, the final act. It was what Faith had done with Angel. She had needed him   
to punish her, to set things right. She had staged the confrontation and expected him to   
win. . .because he was the good guy. He was the hero -- vanquish the big nasty and all   
was right with the world. She would have been properly punished and then there would   
have been peace. Death was easier than living with the consequences of what she had   
done. Angel had known that, and now Faith knew it too.  
  
Willow wasn't looking for justice or even a big win. She was looking for a way out.  
  
"Will--"  
  
Willow raised her hand in a casual gesture and suddenly Faith flew through the air,   
hitting a brick wall, splayed out like a bug against a windshield only with less technicolor   
ick. And she hurt. God, how she hurt. It wasn't the trauma of the impact. She was a   
Slayer and built to take a licking, but, from windshield gunk to bug zapper char without   
missing a beat, Faith's senses were fried as black magic sizzled over every nerve ending,   
burning her like electrical fire.  
  
"I killed Buffy. I killed Xander. You think I won't kill you?" Another flash of magic, a   
red, orange, and white arc of light, hit Faith with teeth-rattling force. "I could kill you   
now. Break you. Burn you --"  
  
"I get the point, Will." The wave of unearthly power dissipated, and Faith fell to the   
ground. She lay there for a moment then clawed at the dirt trying to pull herself to her   
knees. "You're the badass now."  
  
The witch stepped over the prone Slayer. "You think I chose this? I didn't choose this. I   
didn't want this. I was pushed into it. It's not my fault."  
  
"Right."  
  
"Don't mock me!" Willow squatted, her boots crunching again the gravel as she turned   
Faith over so they could face each other. "I didn't do this. He did this. He ruined   
everything."  
  
=Who, he?= "Xander always was kind of a screw up. Not sure he deserved to die--."  
  
"Don't!" Another surge of black power jackhammered Faith into the ground, no doubt   
leaving a Slayer size hole in the dirt. "You don't understand. It was Warren who did   
this. He killed Tara and deserved to die. I didn't mean to hurt Xander. I would *never*   
hurt Xander. He just. . ." Something hardened in the witch's expression. "He and Buffy   
got in the way, and things. . . It all went too far! Don't you see it's not my fault? Things   
got out of control. I wouldn't do this. I couldn't do this. It's not *me.*"  
  
=Oh yeah, keep telling yourself that. Repeat it a billion times. You still won't believe it.=   
Faith knew this because she recognized the turmoil inside the witch, the denial and self-  
hate. Faith recognized it because she had faced it in the mirror for longer than she cared   
to admit. She remembered the desperate excuses, the pretending not to care, and she   
remembered that painful moment of clarity when the truth hit her dead center between the   
eyes that *she* was the monster.   
  
Willow stood, and Faith just had to ask, "If it wasn't you, Will, just who was it?"  
  
Willow's eyes -- so black, so scarily, frighteningly black -- burned with some inner fire.   
"Bitch!"  
  
Faith fired the crossbow she had secretly loaded. Wooden stakes might be for vamps, but   
they could kill people too. Willow smiled as if she had been waiting for this, and, if   
Faith's suspicions were right, maybe she had. Maybe Willow *wanted* this to end.  
  
The stake stopped in mid-air. It was very Matrix the way it hovered in mid-flight. And   
the smile that spread across Willow's face made Faith's blood run cold. Instinct told the   
Slayer to move as the witch turned the weapon back on the Faith.  
  
Shit! The stake vibrated with power even after it embedded itself in the ground . . .   
exactly where Faith had lain moments before. The Slayer gazed at it in shock then looked   
at the witch. She'd been wrong. Willow wasn't in some suicidal depression. Willow   
was in a homicidal rage.  
  
Grabbing the axe that had fallen out of the weapons sack Faith had been carrying on her   
before Willow had thrown her against the wall, Faith attacked. She lunged at Willow,   
dragging the witch to the ground where they landed with an audible grunt. Faith   
backhanded her opponent, snapping the witch's head to the side before raising the axe.  
  
"Repuo!" the witch commanded, and the axe flew out of the Slayer's hand.  
  
Faith didn't hesitate. She reached for the switchblade. It popped open with an audible   
snap, and the light from distant street lights glinted off the blade. She brought it down   
swiftly, planning to slash the witch's throat.  
  
Willow looked at Faith with human eyes.   
  
The Slayer hesitated -- just for a moment, but it was a moment too long. It gave Willow   
time to gather her strength and rage, and with an inhuman roar she flung Faith into the   
darkness, sending another ball of black magic to explode at the Slayer's feet.   
  
Faith felt the burn. She smelled the stench of singed hair and clothes and flesh and knew   
it all came from her. Their gazes met. This was the end. Survival instinct warred with   
resignation as Faith watched light coalesce around Willow, crackling and humming with   
an ominous sound, and, unwilling to die sitting on her ass, Faith charged one more time.  
  
She hit. She struck. She kicked and fought, and Faith knew she didn't have a hope in   
hell of winning. Willow was something not quite human now. She was mad and   
powerful and out of control. Magic glowed around her like some malevolent aura -- red,   
orange, fuchsia, and white -- and Faith watched in bemusement as the colors coalesced   
into tendrils of power which moved independently of one another.   
  
As tentacles of magic lashed out, setting items of litter on fire, Willow resembled some   
postmodern, all-electric version of the snake-haired goddess Medusa. It was surreal and   
awful, and just another night in Sunnydale. . .only it wasn't just another night, and   
Willow wasn't just another Big Bad. This was going to be the end of one of them, and   
Faith was reasonably sure it was going to be her.   
  
Somehow, Willow summoned the axe she had previously torn from Faith's hand. The   
Slayer tried to dodge it, but it was too late. The ax hit her. Faith screamed. "Oh God!"   
She tried to pull the axe blade out of her thigh as she fell to the ground.  
  
"God won't help," Willow snarled. "She didn't help Tara, why would she help you?"  
  
Willow lashed out. A black magic tendril struck Faith, blinding her with a torment she   
could never describe or forget. It consumed her. It stole her breath, her voice, and her   
thoughts. It was killing her. There was nothing but pain racing through her veins, and   
Faith was beginning to convulse. Some dim thought or hope hovered on the fast fading   
edges of her consciousness. There was something. . .something. . .  
  
Faith remembered the silver dagger strapped to her thigh. It was her last resort if she   
could just move. Please, just move. Millimeter by millimeter at first, Faith managed to   
move her hand. Her blistered fingers were slick with the blood that soaked her clothing,   
and flowed freely from the lurid gash in her thigh, but she found it. She wrapped her   
hand around the dagger, feeling the embossed symbols press against her palm. One shot.   
That was all she would have. On shot. One chance.  
  
Willow's power was growing again. Faith was learning how to anticipate it. It was like   
gathering static electricity. She could feel goosebumps rising on her skin and fear   
gnawing at her gut, but she had to take her time. She had to take aim.  
  
One shot.   
  
She tensed her arm and threw the blade. . .straight at Willow's heart.   
  
The last of her strength spent, Faith laid her head on the ground, too consumed by pain   
and magic to care what might happen next. She'd welcome death if it would just stop the   
pain. So she waited. . .and waited. And slowly it penetrated Faith's consciousness that   
she was not dead. Not even close.  
  
Faith raised her head to see Willow standing in front of her, the silver dagger lodged dead   
center in the witch's chest. Willow opened her mouth but made no sound. The alley was   
still and deathly silent as the sorceress disappeared.  
  
=What?= Faith tried in vain to pull herself to her knees, but soon gave up as she blinked   
with disbelief. It was like some Warner Brothers cartoon where Wiley Coyote just went   
poof--only this wasn't Wiley and this wasn't a cartoon. This ending was just so absurd   
and anticlimactic. It was just. . .over.   
  
She felt a sob building in her throat, and she tried to swallow. Breaking down, breaking   
into tears was not something Faith did. She had survived hadn't she? There were those   
who would say it was more than she deserved.  
  
It started to rain.  
  
God, could there be any more misery tonight? Faith laid down her head and closed her   
eyes and -- despite her best efforts -- she cried.  
  
There were footsteps. She could hear them somewhere behind her, they made slashing   
sounds in the gathering puddles.  
  
"Faith?"   
  
It was the Watcher. There was hesitancy in the woman's voice, fear. Did Ms. Chartley   
think she was dead? There was a light touch on her shoulder. "Faith?"   
  
Chartley gently turned Faith over, and Faith managed to focus long enough to say, "Got   
any more of that stuff you drugged me with earlier?" She blacked out.  
  
When Faith came to, she was in a hospital room all nice and white, crisp and clean.   
She hoped a year hadn't passed, because that had screwed with her last time.   
  
Ms. Chartley was talking into a phone. "Broken ribs, a rather nasty laceration on her   
thigh, second and third degree burns, a concussion --"  
  
Were the Watcher cataloguing her injuries? Sounded like enough for even a Slayer to   
need time to pull herself back together.  
  
"Yes," Ms. Chartley answered the person on the other end of the line. "She vanquished   
the witch."  
  
"Maybe not." Faith was surprised by how hoarse her voice sounded.  
  
Ms. Chartley looked surprised. "I will call you later." She hung up the phone and took a   
seat next to the bed. "How do you feel?"  
  
"Like I've been electrocuted, thrown against a brick wall, hit with an axe, and set on   
fire."  
  
"I'm -- "  
  
"Don't say sorry. Stuff like this comes with the job."  
  
Ms. Chartley sat up straight and clearly made an effort to look like a cool and collected.   
"You said you were unsure about having vanquished Miss Rosenberg."  
  
"I don't know about vanquish. I hit her with that funky dagger, but. . ." Faith looked up.   
"I don't know what happened. It was in her chest, and that must have killed her. I can't   
see how it couldn't. It's just. . .she disappeared. Just 'poof.' Gone."  
  
Chartley frowned. It caused short little lines to form on her forehead between her   
perfectly plucked eyebrows. But after a moment or two the Watcher relaxed, as if   
somewhere in her head she had found the answer she needed.   
  
"It happens that way sometimes," Chartley explained. "Ingesting that much black magic   
is a death sentence. A rational mind cannot sustain it."  
  
"Mind? What does that have to do with it?"  
  
"You must have heard of 'mind over matter.' It is the mind that is essential. That's why   
it takes intelligence to be a competent witch. The mind controls the magic. . .or not."  
  
"And when the mind goes out of control, they go poof?"  
  
"Sometimes. Of course, in this case you also stabbed her with the dagger of Am-mit. The   
cumulative effect of both those things. . .well, perhaps we should not be surprised that in   
the end Miss Rosenberg died by what appears to be a confluence of supernatural means."   
Ms. Chartley nodded, apparently satisfied by what she had said. "I am sure that explains   
everything."  
  
=Uh-huh.= Faith wished it explained everything to her, but it didn't come close.   
Willow, who had once been nauseatingly sweet and kind and good, had wigged out and   
killed her best friends. The hero, the golden girl, Buffy was dead. . .and *Faith* was the   
one alive to tell the tale. No, this didn't make sense to Faith. It didn't make sense at all.  
  
* * *  
  
The dark was thick and viscous, like swimming in black water only she could breathe.   
She *was* breathing, wasn't she? Willow thought she was breathing, but then she also   
thought she could see—which was absurd because there was no light.   
  
=Is this hell?= Willow wondered, =Or is this just death?=   
  
"Neither," a disembodied voice answered.   
  
"W-who. . .where are you?"  
  
"The game isn't over."   
  
Willow frowned. "Not an answer to my question, but noted. What game?"  
  
No reply.  
  
"There's nothing left," Willow told him. . . it. . .whatever it was. "Everything is gone."  
  
"You are left."  
  
"I'm nothing--not by myself. Without Tara. . .without Buffy and Xander. . ." She   
continued to peer into the darkness. "I'm better off dead."  
  
"And if I told you there is a way to bring the white witch back, to bring *all three* of   
them back, to change things so that they never died, what would you say?"  
  
"How?"  
  
The voice chuckled. "Patience, little one. I have plans. . ."  
  
TBC... 


	3. Company of Misery

**CHAPTER THREE**  
  
Dawn sat behind the check-out counter of the Magic Box, staring  
blindly at the numbers on the cash register.  
  
A short, balding man with an exasperated expression glared at  
her. "Can you ring this up?"  
  
Dawn took the man's credit card, ran it through the machine, and  
waited for the print out as the man grumbled about how rude she was.  
Yeah. So what? He wasn't winning customer of the year.  
  
Dawn handed him the ticket. "Sign this."  
  
He stared at her.  
  
"What?" she snapped.  
  
"I need a pen."  
  
Could he *be* any more annoying? "Here." When the man handed back  
the receipt, Dawn slipped it into the slot in the register and  
returned to her busy afternoon of staring into space.  
  
He coughed. She ignored him.  
  
"Excuse me."  
  
Was he still here? "What?!"  
  
The guy gazed pointedly at his purchase still sitting on the  
counter.  
  
Okay, so she hadn't bagged it. Big deal. Dawn pulled a bag from  
under the counter and dropped the Eau de Slug candle into it  
wondering why anyone would buy an Eau de Slug candle. Did slugs even  
have a smell? And who would want to smell them anyway? And if Anya  
was knew *anything* about marketing wouldn't she call it "Eau de  
Escargot?"  
  
The man took his bag and growled. "Have a nice day."  
  
Was he mocking her?  
  
"Sure. Whatever." Dawn didn't try to sound sincere and refused to  
pursue hypocrisy far enough to force a smile. She wasn't Miss  
Customer Service.  
  
The bell rang behind the customer as he slammed the door, but Dawn  
hardly noticed. She sat dry eyed, wondering whether she should invest  
in a couple of bottles of Visine. She had no tears left. She had  
nothing. Dawn guessed that at some point she must have blown an  
internal fuse and the emotional lights had gone out.  
  
Buffy was dead. Xander was dead. Willow was the true evil dead, and  
Spike. . .Dawn's thoughts skittered away from Spike. She didn't want  
to think about him. She didn't want to think about any of them. She  
just wanted to sit still and go unnoticed, let the world go by  
without her.  
  
It was funny in a horrible way--very Alanis Morisette ironic—that for  
so long she had wanted nothing more than to be noticed, and now she  
wanted to curl into a ball of nothingness. She didn't want anyone  
looking at her and wondering where all her emotions had gone. . .not  
that it was a problem here.  
  
At school there were teachers and counselors (the non-demon kind) who  
had worried expressions and sympathetic words, but in the Magic Box  
there was only silence and numbness. She, Anya, and Giles had swept  
up the glass, repaired the door, and put the merchandise back on the  
shelves, but that was the easy part, the unimportant part. They had  
reopened the store, but nothing was fixed—not really. The repairs  
were superficial because more than just windows had been broken.  
  
"I think we can close early today," Anya said in a distracted voice.  
  
Six months ago Anya never would have said that. She would have been  
thinking of ways to keep the store open twenty-four hours a day  
because you never knew when someone might need bat brains or chicken  
feet or mandrake root. But that was six months ago and things had  
been different then. Now, Anya gazed out the window with a far away  
expression eyes and considered going home early.  
  
It felt ridiculous that after everything, Anya was all Dawn had  
left -- Anya who had hurt Buffy with what she had done with Spike,  
Anya who had returned to her old demon self, Anya who  
was. . .well. . .Anya. But the vengeance demon was grieving, too and  
she mostly left Dawn alone which was what Dawn wanted most these days.  
  
At some point she and Anya had decided to live together,  
although `lived' was too animated a term. It would be more correct  
to say they co-existed. Most of the time Dawn and Anya wandered  
around their two-bedroom apartment behaving like near-silent  
strangers. They could go hours without looking at other or saying  
anything more important than, "Have you seen the remote?"  
  
The apartment was nice, though. It was brand new. It even smelled  
of fresh paint and carpet, and Anya had nice taste. She had chosen  
soft, cheerful colors, and there was something comfortingly feminine  
about the place. But more important than decor was the fact that the  
apartment had no past and no memories attached to it. No way could  
Dawn have returned to Revello Drive, and Anya categorically refused  
to enter Xander's apartment. It would hurt too much, so in the end  
they had found someplace new and furnished it with all new stuff.  
Even the Magic Box's appearance had changed. The black-and-green  
vinyl tile floor had been replaced with wood and the painted wood  
shelving was now tung-oiled maple. It looked different, and  
different was good. Anything was better than the past.  
  
Although Dawn hadn't wanted a *complete* break with the past, at  
least not a big enough break to go to England with Giles. She gave  
Giles credit for trying to make one more go of it in Sunnydale, but  
Dawn had seen that it was killing him. Anya had urged him to go—not  
because she wanted the store for herself any longer, but because she  
said looking at Giles be sad made her more sad, and Anya had all the  
sad she could take.  
  
Dawn had agreed. Giles *had* looked sad. He had become a ghost of  
himself. His Slayer was dead. . . again, and he had ignored the  
warning signs with Willow. He blamed himself for just about  
everything which led to him drinking too much and staying alone at  
his apartment too long. Finally both Anya and Dawn had told him to  
go. He had tried to arrange for Dawn to go with him, but Dawn  
refused. Sunnydale might be hell, but it was home.  
  
She had dismissed out of hand any thought of going to Hank Summers,  
who wasn't *really* her Dad and who would have been a bad one even if  
he were. In the real world-- and not just her monk manufactured  
memory one-- Dawn had never met the man. It seemed stupid to turn  
her life over to a stranger, and the only other option had been  
foster care. No way would she agree to that, so out of all the  
choices open to her, Dawn picked the one requiring the least effort  
and emotion.  
  
A single wish to Halfrek had been enough to seal the deal. The  
paperwork had been handled instantly, the details magically fixed.  
Any protests that might have been raised were prevented by mojo  
saying no questions needed to be asked. Everyone accepted the  
situation with supernatural serenity.  
  
In late June Dawn's and Anya's listless solitude had been interrupted  
by the arrival of Wesley Wyndam-Price. Giles, in an effort to break  
the last of his ties to Sunnydale, had sold his share of the Magic  
Box to the younger Watcher, and to everyone's surprise Wesley had fit  
right in.  
  
Wesley seemed so much older than Dawn remembered. He was more quiet  
and more calm, and he seemed to shoulder some kind of oppressive  
grief of his own. Wes didn't talk much about what had happened in  
L.A., about Angel's son, Angel's disappearance, or what had happened  
to Cordy, but it was clear it bothered him. He had also made clear  
that he wouldn't discuss any of it —not that Anya or she made much  
effort to discuss anything.  
  
They all had their secrets.  
  
When Wesley had arrived in town, Anya had begged Dawn to keep the  
secret about her "demon" situation. It was one thing for Dawn and  
Giles to know; Anya trusted Dawn and Giles. But the Council  
frightened her, and she didn't know Wesley.  
  
Sure. Fine. Whatever. Dawn didn't care. If Anya didn't want to  
reveal that beneath her pretty face she was really all veiny, Dawn  
saw no reason to bring it up. Dawn didn't want the Watcher to know  
how her and Anya's living arrangements had come about so she could  
see why Anya might not want her own . . .uh. . .*situation* to be  
known--especially with a new Slayer in town. Or was that the old  
Slayer?  
  
Faith was back. She was the main reason Wesley had agreed to buy  
into the Magic Box. Slayers moved to the Hellmouth. Faith was the  
Slayer, and, although Dawn didn't know the details, she had gotten  
the impression that Faith had insisted that if she had a Watcher, her  
watcher had to be Wesley.  
  
Reportedly, Wes had balked at the idea. Who wouldn't? *Faith* was  
involved, but Wesley had hinted that Faith wasn't the problem. He had  
pointed out that he was no longer part of the Council. Eventually,  
however, Wesley or the Council had given in. *Someone* must have  
given in because here Wesley and Faith sat alongside Anya and herself  
in a room filled with dreary silence. They were four people  
studiously ignoring one another and existing in bubbles of private  
misery.  
  
"Do you think we should close early?" Anya asked again. No one had  
responded to her earlier statement.  
  
Wesley looked up from his book. "Yes, Anya, I believe it would be  
acceptable to close fifteen minutes early." There was an edge to  
Wesley's voice that Dawn didn't remember from the days when he had  
worn dorky suits and too much hair gel, from the days before he had a  
scar stretching from his Adam's apple to just below his ear.  
  
Anya nodded. "Yes, I think we can close early." Had she even heard  
Wesley's answer? Dawn didn't know, and, despite what she was saying,  
Anya still made no move to lock the door. She simply stood at the  
window, watching the fading light. Dawn wasn't the only one who  
spent too much time staring into space.  
  
The silence was broken by Faith slapping her hands on the table and  
moving to stand. "It's almost dark. Think I'll head out for  
patrol." And Dawn watched her back as Faith moved to go.  
  
Faith looked mostly the same as Dawn remembered-–even though it was a  
fake memory. Considering the kind of damage Willow had done to her,  
Faith looked pretty good. Her hair was a little shorter --it had  
been singed in the Willow fight and had needed to be cut—but now it  
was shoulder length and as enviably thick as ever. You'd never know  
that Slayer healing powers aside, Faith had spent more than a week in  
the hospital, the first day in the ICU. Now, the only noticeable  
indication of the hurt she'd endured was the smooth, pink scar that  
twisted from the back of Faith's left hand to the underside of her  
forearm.  
  
The bell over the door rang as Faith walked out the door, and,  
finally, Anya locked it behind her.  
  
Silence again. It was so silent that Dawn thought she could hear the  
ticking of the clock and Wesley's and Anya's breathing. Dawn  
couldn't take it. She understood why Faith had needed to stand and  
go. She needed to be anywhere but here.  
  
"Where are you going?" Anya asked when Dawn also moved to go.  
  
"Out." The words came out more harshly than Dawn intended.  
  
Anya frowned, and some lingering emotion from the days when she could  
still feel things made Dawn relent. "Dinner and videos with a  
friend," Dawn explained. "I'll be back later."  
  
She walked into the back room to get her stuff and heard Anya say to  
Wesley, "She doesn't cry. I cry all the time, but Dawn doesn't cry.  
I don't think it's healthy. Do you think that's healthy? All those  
emotions bottled-up. She could pop or spontaneously combust or  
something. I've seen that happen, you know."  
  
Dawn slipped out the back door telling herself that Anya was wrong.  
There was no bottled up emotion. There was no emotion at all. She  
looked at the sky. It wasn't dark yet, just kind of pink and purple  
with enough daylight left to convince Dawn she had time to trace a  
familiar path.  
  
She used to make this trek all the time, just to hang out with Spike  
and listen to his stories or watch his beat-up TV. It used to piss  
Buffy off, and Dawn had sort of enjoyed doing that. Pissing Buffy  
off had once been motivation in and of itself. Once.  
  
It had confused Dawn why Buffy would become so angry about her  
hanging out with Spike. After all, it was Buffy who had taken her to  
the crypt in the first place. Looking back, Dawn was still kind  
of. . .okay, a *lot* confused by whatever had gone on between Spike  
and Buffy. It made no rational sense, but Dawn guessed it didn't  
matter much. Not now that Buffy was gone. Not now that Spike was  
gone too. Clem was around though, and he was easy company--nice, and  
not too depressed, which was rare in Sunnydale.  
  
Dawn reached the crypt and jiggled the handle on the door. It had a  
tendency to stick, so she wasn't worried. But when a hard push still  
didn't budge it, she began to think this time might be different.  
This time the door was locked. Spike had never bothered to lock it,  
but Clem had a bigger problem with people barging in unannounced. He  
usually ended up with potato chips or Fritos scattered all over the  
floor. =Plus, Clem doesn't get off on being dragged into a fight  
without warning.=  
  
Dawn huffed, crossed her arms and leaned against the wrought-iron  
gate that barred the door. Now what was she supposed to do? She  
didn't want to go back to the Magic Box, and she didn't want to go ho—  
to the apartment she shared with Anya. Maybe she could just hang out  
here and wait for Clem.  
  
Dawn almost convinced herself that staying was a workable plan until  
she allowed herself to become aware of just how dark it had become.  
Dark in Sunnydale equaled `not good.' The creepy-crawlies came out.  
The street lights were turning on, and the mist was rising from the  
ground like one of those old black and white horror movies that aired  
in marathons on Halloween. Goosebumps rose on Dawn's skin. It wasn't  
safe to stay here. Not without the protection of the crypt or a  
floppy eared demon, or a snarky, overly emotional vampire who had  
become her unlikely friend.  
  
Hugging her jacket close, Dawn hurried out of the cemetery. She was  
beginning to hear sounds, scary sounds, the creaks and groans of  
coffin lids lifting and tomb covers being toppled. . .or at least the  
sounds created by her imagination running wild.  
  
Wild imagination. Right. That's all it was. That explained  
everything. It was just her imagination, not cold undead creatures  
popping out of their graves, and. . .um. . .she really should be on  
her way because Dawn didn't think the sounds were just her  
imagination. They were— Dawn frowned. Fighting?  
  
Ducking behind a tombstone, Dawn cautiously peeked over the granite  
and gave a sigh of relief. It was Faith, and she was fighting as  
skillfully and efficiently as ever. A fledging vamp didn't stand a  
chance against a Slayer. Hell, *no* vamp stood a chance. . .unless,  
of course, the vamp's name was Spike.  
  
Then Dawn noticed that Faith's opponent had a familiar moonlight  
blonde head.  
  
"Spike!"  
  
* * *  
  
=This vamp knows how to fight.= Faith had noticed that right off.  
Normal graveyard vamps were usually newbies and as such were easy  
kills. That was the reason Faith had chosen to patrol the cemetery.  
  
In places like The Bronze, collateral damage was always a  
possibility. Sometimes people got in the way. They messed up the  
fight and got hurt. . .or worse. Faith could testify to that. When  
fists and stakes were flying it was often difficult to tell the  
difference between human and vampire. Faith had made that mistake  
once. She was trying not to make it again. So, whenever possible,  
Faith stuck to the graveyards. Here, the vampires were easy to spot.  
The guy or girl jumping out of a grave was a vampire. No questions  
asked. No doubts needed--not that it was impossible to find a human  
wandering around a cemetery at night—though in Sunnydale it would  
take an incredibly *stupid* human to do that—but with a nearly empty  
cemetery and little to no interference-- Faith could trust her  
instincts.  
  
A Slayer could feel the presence of vampires. It was an odd  
sensation and hard to describe. Things just felt. . .different.  
Faith couldn't put her finger on it, and she couldn't articulate it.  
She just knew it when she felt it, and she was feeling it now.  
  
This one was old. Faith could feel that too. Newbies felt ---  
Faith searched for a way to articulate it even to herself and the  
best she could think of was `tight'. Somehow in her Slayer senses  
they were like balloons with too much air. Demons were the evil  
helium and the person was the stretchy shell. Maybe that's why  
fledglings walked around in game face all the time; their demons  
didn't quite fit. And maybe that's why they went `pop' so easily.  
  
But old ones were different -- not that they didn't also go pop -- it  
was just. . .they fit. The helium did whatever it was that helium  
did, and where the balloon had once been too full, it wasn't any more.  
  
Of course, most of this was speculation based on the oldest vampire  
Faith had ever met -- Angel. He hardly set off her Slayer senses at  
all. There was something different about him. He fit. Faith had  
always thought it had been his soul, but now she wondered if it was  
because his vamp "fit" too.  
  
Faith spun on her heel. The kicking motion was fluid and powerful.  
She was quite proud of herself but the vamp deftly dodged the blow.  
Faith attacked and he defended. It was almost as if someone had  
choreographed this fight because the vamp seemed to anticipate  
Faith's every move.  
  
Something whispered in the back of Faith's mind that this vamp might  
actually have a shot at killing her, even as she struck a glancing  
blow off his shoulder. He caught her wrist and twisted her arm  
behind her in a way that in less deadly struggle would have demanded  
her yelling "Uncle!" She stomped his foot—not the most warrior-like  
move, but it worked.  
  
He let go of her, shouting, "Bloody hell!" And Faith blinked and  
turned to look at the vamp—really look--for the very first time.  
  
Usually she just processed `vamp,' and didn't go further Looking too  
closely at her targets would mean assigning them an identity which  
only made them harder to kill. But this one. . .this one she  
recognized.  
  
A memory resurfaced. Faith had been dancing at The Bronze, but she  
hadn't *quite* been herself. Actually, she had been Buffy. She had  
stolen Buffy's face, Buffy's life, and . . .other things that had  
belonged to Buffy. The music had been pounding and Faith had been  
having a hell of a time, using drink and noise to drown the ache,  
anger, and loneliness inside her. Then she had bumped into a man  
whose striking bone structure somehow surpassed `handsome' and landed  
in the territory of `supernaturally beautiful'. . .in a masculine  
kind of way. And he had recognized her--or at least he'd recognized  
Buffy.  
  
"You're a vampire," Faith had said.  
  
"Yeah, and soon as I get this chip out of my head I'll be a vampire  
again." His accented voice had been filled with exasperation. "But  
until then I'm as helpless as a kitten up a tree so why don't you sod  
off and let me enjoy the lack of ambiance?"  
  
"Okay."  
  
He had looked offended. "Oh, fine! Throw it in my face! Spike's  
not a threat anymore. I'll just turn my back. *He* can't hurt me –"  
  
The name had been familiar. "Spike." The Slayer killer. Faith's  
first Watcher had told her the name because this particular vampire  
was notorious. The Council used him as a cautionary tale. Spike was  
different, dangerous. Most vamps avoided the Slayer if they could,  
and, if they did seek to kill her, they would do so in packs. No one  
faced a Slayer *alone*. . .except Spike. This vamp had single  
handedly fought several Slayers and not only unlived to tell the  
tale, but had bested two. He could fight and win. And he was not  
helpless any more.  
  
When Spike had twisted her arm, he had not so much as flinched. He  
was free. The chip no longer worked, and Faith started to fight in  
earnest.  
  
Faith had no intention of dying this night, but it was all too clear  
that Spike knew what he was doing. He knew Slayers well. When she  
tried to strike him with her stake, he parried the thrust. They moved  
in tandem. It was like a dance. He even complimented her. "You're  
good. Nice rhythm."  
  
"You think?"  
  
"Oh, definitely."  
  
Two steps forward. One step back. Kick. Duck. Turn.  
  
She heard Spike chuckle, and Faith saw red. She raised her arm and  
realized she had left her right side undefended. And she saw the  
moment he realized it too. She could see it in his eyes. She was  
vulnerable to attack and he knew it. He could win. He could kill  
her. . .and he pulled his punch.  
  
=What?=  
  
Faith couldn't quite believe it. Spike had let the opportunity go.  
He continued the dance, but he had passed up the opportunity to win.  
  
"Dropping your shoulder," he told her. "Better watch that."  
  
An insane thought teased her. A possibility Faith should never  
consider hovered around the edges of her thoughts, and, before she  
had made a conscious decision, Faith dropped another punch, left  
herself open for another attack. . .and waited to see what he would  
do.  
  
Spike ignored it. He didn't take the opening either. Faith was  
stunned. Was this some trick, some mindgame she didn't understand?  
What was he doing? She wasn't winning, but Spike wasn't allowing her  
to lose. =What the hell?=  
  
Faith was in mid-motion when she heard the scream. "Spike!" And a  
coltish, brown haired girl threw herself between Faith and Spike.  
  
=Oh God!= Memories of how she had messed up before flew through  
Faith's mind. She tried to divert her attack. She didn't want to  
stake Dawn.  
  
Diverting her momentum caused Faith to tumble to the ground and, as  
she hit the dirt, she noticed the vampire had the same problem. With  
preternatural grace he had moved to avoid hitting Dawn -- which was  
shocking and impossible and undeniably true—but graceful or not, it  
was too late. Like herself, the act of pulling his punch caused  
Spike to fall to the ground.  
  
"Bloody hell," he muttered just before Dawn tackled him.  
  
As Faith sat up, she watched Dawn wrap her arms around the vampire's  
neck, and the vampire awkwardly, tentatively enfold the girl in his  
embrace.  
  
Dawn was crying. In all the months Faith had been in Sunnydale she  
hadn't seen Dawn cry once. "You came back. I knew you would come  
back."  
  
Faith saw the vamp gently caress Dawn's hair. "Bit—"  
  
Then Dawn pulled back and slapped him. "Where were you?"  
  
"Bit—"  
  
"Don't `Bit' me! Where were you? You left us, and we needed you!"  
  
He sighed. "It's complicated."  
  
"Not complicated. We *needed* you. `To the end of the world,'  
remember? You were supposed be here."  
  
Spike looked frustrated. A muscle worked in his jaw and his voice  
sounded impatient. "Dawn—"  
  
"She's dead!"  
  
Spike blanched. Faith didn't know a vampire *could* blanch, but he  
did.  
  
Tears streaked Dawn's face and her voice was hoarse and  
choked. "Buffy's dead." And it was like someone had sucked the sound  
out of the air. Everything was still and quiet and eerie.  
  
The vampire took a breath and asked, "How?"  
  
The teen punched the him in the shoulder. "It's your fault. You  
weren't here. Why weren't you here? I hate you!" Dawn hit him  
again and again, pummeling him but the vampire didn't seem to notice  
and never raised a hand in his own defense.  
  
"Buffy. . ." He choked.  
  
Dawn pulled away, roughly rubbing away her tears with the back of her  
hand she told him to go. "Leave!"  
  
Spike looked at Dawn with pale blue eyes filled with  
pain. "Niblet. . ."  
  
"No! Get out!" Her high, insistent, ear-splitting cry was enough to  
raise the dead. . .or at least convince one to leave. Spike stumbled  
to his feet. "Go!" Dawn screamed. He looked at the girl for a long  
moment, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed some emotion, then  
walked away. At first it was a slow stride with his head hung low.  
Then he picked up speed and disappeared into the night.  
  
Faith watched him go because she wasn't sure what she was supposed to  
do. What was she supposed to do about any of this? For that matter  
what the hell *was* this?  
  
Dawn wrapped her arms around herself as she sank to the ground and  
gave a shuddering sob. And what was Faith supposed to do about  
that? She had nothing to offer. Maybe, if she were someone else,  
she would reach out to the girl. But she couldn't imagine Dawn would  
want that, not from her. And besides, Faith didn't know how.  
  
Thank God a trio of vampires stupidly chose that moment to attack.  
The first one didn't even have a chance to get a few good punches in  
before Faith dusted him. "I don't—" she firmly planted her stake in  
the sternum of the second vamp, who exploded in a brown-gray cloud, "—  
have time for this." The last vampire met a dusty end as well before  
Faith turned around. "Now, Dawn. . ."  
  
Dawn was gone.  
  
"Damn it!"  
  
  
TBC  
  



	4. Upon the Heath

AUTHOR NOTES: If I was choosing a sountrack for this   
chapter..."Bring Back the Sun" by Our Lady Peace  
  
PREVIOUS CHAPTERS ARCHIVED:   
http://www.angelfire.com/tv2/eclectic_fiction/spikefic.htm  
  
  
**********************************************************  
CHAPTER FOUR  
  
Spike traced the letters. B-E-L...  
  
And fell to his knees. O-V-E-D  
  
Over and over again he traced the word like a blind man touching   
Braille, feeling the engraved letters beneath his fingertips. The   
granite was cold--cold and hard. It was stone. What else would it be?  
  
Spike sat back on his heels, and even though it was dark, he could   
still read the words.   
  
`Beloved Sister, Devoted Friend.'   
  
He'd read the words before, and wasn't surprised to see them again.   
It was what she'd wanted all along. He felt pressure building behind   
some interior dam, until it cracked, and emotion spilled forth--a   
trickle, then a waterfall, then a flood.  
  
Beloved Sister. Devoted Friend.  
  
"Bitch!" he yelled. "Goddamned selfish, cowardly bitch!" Spike tore   
at the grass. "Did you get what you wanted? Did you find your way   
out?" His fingers were bloodied as he dug into the dirt. "Pushed me   
away. Drove me away so there'd be no one to stop you. Had to have   
your bloody death wish, didn't you?"  
  
Abruptly, Spike stood, even though he continued to stare at the   
ground. "Just couldn't take it could you? Couldn't face the world."   
He kicked the dirt. "Didn't have the guts. Didn't have—" Spike   
roared like a wounded animal as he grabbed her gravestone, pushing it   
back and forward, dislodging it from the earth. "Coward!" he yelled   
as he tore it from the ground. "Bitch!" he screamed as he threw the   
stone against a crypt.   
  
The granite broke, fracturing along an almost imperceptible flaw,   
splitting into two pieces until he grabbed them and threw them   
against the wall again. And again. They lay in a messy jumble of   
small chunks, but he could still read the words.  
  
B-E-L. He started to cry. O-V-E-D. Without dignity Spike fell to   
the ground, sobbing as he lay prostrate in the dirt. "Buffy."  
  
* * *  
  
Faith banged her hand against the door of the Magic Box. Come on!   
She didn't have all night!  
  
Okay, so maybe she had behaved like she had all night. Maybe she   
had stayed in the graveyard too long. Was it her fault that she'd   
run into a glowy eyed, blue skinned demon with a tail? Tearing the   
thing's head off hadn't been easy. It had slowed her down.   
Besides, it wasn't her job to keep track of Buffy's kid sister. Her   
job was to beat demons and stake vampires. Faith had been *doing*   
her job when she'd popped the head off the demon like a champagne   
cork. She hadn't been avoiding Dawn. She wasn't such a coward that   
she couldn't face one girl's trauma and tears.   
  
=Yeah, right. And I'll buy swampland in Death Valley next.=  
  
Since when did Dawn cry anyway? From the moment Faith had been   
dumped into what remained of the Scooby gang, Dawn had been dry-eyed   
and distant. Nothing had touched her. Nothing broke through her   
walls. Nothing. . .until the vampire had reappeared.  
  
The vampire. Spike. The whole scene had been weird. Dawn flying   
into his arms. Dawn slapping his face. He had allowed the kid to   
slap his face. That was definitely strange and not just Hellmouth   
strange. This was emotional weirdness that Faith couldn't begin to   
comprehend--a notorious Slayer killer who had overlooked two chances   
to kill a Slayer, who had submitted to being pummeled and insulted by   
a fifteen year old girl, who had taken the news of Buffy's death as   
though someone had just thrown an ax that hit him in the gut.   
Weirdness didn't cover it.   
  
And where the hell was Dawn?   
  
Dawn was a smart kid. Faith knew that. All those books the girl   
carried around must mean Dawn was smart, and the brat knew what   
living on the Hellmouth was like. Dawn wouldn't do something   
stupid. She could take care of herself. Faith didn't need to feel   
worried. . .or guilty. . .or anything.  
  
Faith pounded on the Magic Box's door. "Open up!"   
  
After what felt like forever, Wesley turned the lock.   
  
"Is she here?" Faith pushed passed the Watcher to enter the shop.  
  
Wesley blinked. "Who? Anya? She—"  
  
"No. Dawn. The teen pain-in-the-ass. Is she here?"  
  
"Why, no, she—"  
  
"Hey! Ex-demon-girl, you seen the little Buffy?"   
  
No answer.  
  
Faith looked at Wesley. "She here?"  
  
"I thought we just established that Dawn isn't here."  
  
"No. Now I'm talking about ex-demon-girl."  
  
Wesley looked around the almost eerily quiet Magic Box. "She was   
here a moment ago." He frowned. "That's odd."  
  
"Maybe back there." Faith headed toward the rear of the store,   
pushing open the door to the cluttered storage room. Anya wasn't in   
sight but Faith searched anyway. She found a jar of live leeches,   
five cartons of desiccated chicken feet, a gooey black substance she   
didn't want to contemplate, fava beans and a nice Chianti. Faith   
wasn't sure whether Anya was really into movies, had a very strange   
sense of humor, or was a cannibalistic serial killer.  
  
"I believe it's safe to say she isn't here," Wesley said with his   
arms crossed in front of him and his head tilted slightly to one   
side. "Perhaps I could help you if you told me what is wrong. *Is*   
something wrong?"   
  
"Maybe. I don't know. Beats the hell out of me." Faith gave up.   
She wasn't sure why she was searching the store room in the first   
place. Anya wasn't here and looking in jars of leeches wasn't going   
to make the store owner appear. It was just that Faith didn't want to   
deal with Dawn and was willing to kill any amount of time until Anya   
showed up to play surrogate big sis. Faith looked at Wesley. "Where   
would ex-demon-girl go?"   
  
"I don't know."   
  
When Faith returned to the show room of the Magic Box, Anya stood in   
the middle of the floor. "Where did you come from?" Faith asked.  
  
Anya gave a small squeak and looked startled by Wes and Faiths   
appearance. "Oh…uh…from the back room."  
  
Faith and Wesley looked at each other, frowned, and said in   
unison. "No, you didn't."  
  
Anya lifted her chin. "At some point today I came from the back room,   
therefore I came from the back room."  
  
Wesley crossed the room and pointed out, "You weren't *just* in the   
back room. We were there. Where were you?"  
  
"When?"  
  
"Before."  
  
"That is a very inexact time. Before when?"  
  
"Ugh!" Faith interrupted. "It doesn't matter. Have you seen the teen   
terror? The brat?"  
  
"Of course I have seen Dawn, and even if she is irritating and   
whiney, that's not a very nice way to refer to her." Anya's brow   
creased with confusion. "Besides, I don't know why you are asking me   
these questions. Dawn was here when you were here. You saw her."  
  
"After then."  
  
Anya sighed. "This conversation is very tiresome. Are you asking if   
I have seen Dawn since she left for dinner?"  
  
"Jesus-Christ-on-a-stick, yes."  
  
Anya circled the check out counter. "Then the answer is no."  
  
"That's it? No?"   
  
Anya considered her statement for a long moment then nodded. "Just   
no."  
  
Faith thought about finding an ax to bash in the woman's   
head. "Could you call your apartment to see if she is there?"  
  
A frown wrinkled Anya's brow. "Why would I do that?"  
  
"Because we don't know where she is. Because it's-—" Faith glanced   
at her wrist where there was no watch.  
  
"Twelve-o-two," Wesley supplied.  
  
"It's after midnight and do you know where your roommate is?"  
  
Anya blinked. "Home in bed. Young girls should be home in bed after   
midnight." She marched to the phone. "I will call home right now to   
wake her up to tell her she should be in bed."  
  
Neither Faith nor Wesley pointed out the contradiction in Anya's   
statement. They waited for Anya to dial the phone.   
  
"That's odd," Anya said after several moments. "She's not home."  
  
=Damn it! I fucked up. Should'da gone after the brat sooner.=  
  
Anya hung up the phone. "She should be home. It is far too late for   
dinner with a friend. Dinner should be at eight. Nine at the latest."  
  
"Look, she didn't go out to eat. She was in the cemetery. Does she   
have friends in the cemetery?" Faith's voice dripped with sarcasm.   
  
"I believe Clem still lives there." Anya paused as if suddenly   
aware of two pairs of eyes focused on her.   
  
"Who is Clem?" Wesley asked.   
  
"A Shar-peisi demon."   
  
"She hangs out with demon?" Faith was shocked. She hadn't known she   
could be shocked, but she was shocked.  
  
Anya hurried to explain, "Shar-peisies are quite harmless."  
  
Wesley nodded. "True. Shar-Peisies are considered to be benign."  
  
Faith sniffed. "I'll take your word for it. Besides we've got bigger   
problems than a Sharpie demon. Vampire problems."  
  
Anya took a seat at the table. "Oh, those. Shouldn't you take care   
of those?"  
  
"I do take care of those—"  
  
Anya continued talking. "It's not like most of them are all that   
difficult to take care of. It's not like they are hell gods or pure   
blooded demons or anything. I mean *I've* dusted vampires."  
  
Okay, the ex-vengeance demon was doing a dance on Faith's last   
nerve. "This vamp is different. This one can fight, and I mean   
*really* fight." Faith looked at Wesley. "Have you ever heard of   
William the Bloody?"  
  
Anya rolled her eyes. "Spike. Is that all?"  
  
Wesley looked at Anya with surprise and interest. "You know him? He   
is quite infamous."  
  
Anya gave a dismissive wave of her hand. "Don't flatter him.   
Besides, that was years ago. Before the chip. It's not like he can   
hurt anyone."  
  
Wesley arched a brow. "Chip?"  
  
"The chip isn't working," Faith told them as she opened the case   
where weapons were stored.  
  
Anya looked curious. "Really? How did that happen?"  
  
Faith's gaze narrowed. "You don't look worried."  
  
"Why would I be worried? Spike *likes* me."  
  
"Anya," Wesley said patiently, "vampires don't like anyone."  
  
"That's a stereotype," Anya protested. "Broad generalizations lead   
to stereotypes and stereotypes to prejudice. I've read about   
prejudice. Prejudice is bad and as Americans we should try not to be   
prejudiced. Of course, you aren't an American. You're a foreigner   
so you may not know these things, Wesley." Anya stamped her   
foot. "I am tired of rampant prejudice. Down with demon bashing.   
There are many perfectly nice demons. If you prick them do they not   
bleed blood-like, oozing gunk? Demons have feelings, too, you know."   
  
"Yes, Anya. There are demons capable of affection or even love—"  
  
"I should think so."  
  
"But vampires are different—"  
  
Anya sniffed. "I'm 1100 years old. I know very well what vampires   
are like. I know the rules." She sounded exasperated. "Spike   
wouldn't bite me."  
  
"And how do you know that?"  
  
"He told me."  
  
"He's evil! Evil things lie."  
  
Anya crossed her arms. "You've obviously never met Spike. He's a   
horrible liar."  
  
"You two can argue about this later," Faith said with exasperation as   
she handed an ax to Wesley and grabbed a crossbow for herself. "But   
demon-girl may be right."  
  
Wesley followed Faith out the Magic Shop's door. "What makes you say   
that?"  
  
"Weird fight in the graveyard." Faith paused to watch Anya lock the   
Magic Box door before rushing to catch up with Faith and   
Wesley. "Where should we look first?"   
  
Anya gaze widened. "Why are you asking me?"  
  
"You've known the kid the longest. You live with her. Sort of   
thought you might know her better than us."  
  
"Well, I. . .uh. . .." Anya looked lost. "Maybe Clem's. . .?"  
  
Faith shrugged and started toward the cemetery. Wesley kept pace   
with her. "What do you mean `weird fight?' he asked.  
  
"He didn't kill me."  
  
Wesley arched an eyebrow. "And is this unusual? I know William the   
Bloody has a reputation, but you are a very able fighter. Perhaps you   
simply held your own."  
  
"I'm not saying he didn't kill me because I beat him in a fight. I'm   
saying I messed up, gave him an opening, and he didn't take it. And   
if you make a something sexual out of that, I'll kick your ass."  
  
"Maybe he's out of practice," Anya suggested. "It's been a very long   
time since he's killed a Slayer."  
  
Wesley's face, which reflected much more exhaustion and strain than   
it had only two years ago, became lined with thoughtful   
concern. "This is why you're worried about Dawn. You're worried   
about Dawn's connection with Buffy, and Spike's fascination with   
Slayers."  
  
Anya's brow creased as she frowned. "I don't think—"  
  
"I'm not worried," Faith protested. "It's just that Dawn was in the   
graveyard earlier. She saw Spike and got upset. I thought the brat   
had enough sense to come home, but I'm starting to realize she   
doesn't." Faith clenched her fist at her side. "I don't need the   
Council finding out I screwed up and got the last Slayer's little   
sister killed."  
  
"I don't think—"  
  
Wes said, "You are right. We should find Dawn then worry about   
Spike."  
  
As Wesley and Faith moved on, Anya muttered almost to herself. "I   
don't think Spike would hurt Dawn."  
  
But they couldn't know that for certain because they couldn't find   
Dawn.   
  
"Which one?" Faith asked as they stared at a line of crypts.  
  
"Oh, uh. . ." Anya followed a well worn path to a large ornate crypt   
with a wrought-iron gate. Glancing at Faith and Wesley, she   
raised her hand to tap lightly on the door.  
  
"Just a sec!" a voice called. "I've got to write a check."  
  
Faith mouthed, "Check?" to Wesley, who shrugged.   
  
The door of the crypt swung open as a wrinkly, loose-skinned demon   
blinked big red eyes. "You're not Dominoes."  
  
"Clem, have you seen Dawn?" Anya asked.  
  
The Shar-peisi glanced nervously at the strangers. "Uh…not today.   
We were going to watch Harry Potter on video, but Blockbuster was   
out. I had to go all the way down to Fifth Street's Movie Gallery to   
find a copy, but when I got back Dawnie wasn't here. Figured she got   
tired of waiting and went home. Is something wrong? She did make it   
home. . . didn't she?" He looked at the three dour people facing   
him. "This isn't good." He stepped out and pulled the door closed   
behind him. "I'll help you guys look for her. Wouldn't want anything to happen to the Dawnster."  
  
Wesley cleared his voice and found his manners. "That's very kind of   
you."  
  
"Oh, no problem. I like Dawnie."  
  
"What about Dominoes?" Faith asked.  
  
The demon shrugged. "They don't show up half the time. Something   
about the graveyard freaks out delivery boys. Don't know why.   
Humans are very strange."  
  
"Uh. . .yeah. Right."  
  
The four of them walked in silence for a few minutes before Clem   
elbowed Anya. "Who're your friends?" he asked.  
  
"This is the new Watcher and Slayer," Anya explained forthrightly.  
  
"Slayer!" Clem yelped and ducked behind a gravestone.  
  
Faith sighed. "I'm not going to kill you."  
  
"Promise?"  
  
"If you come out from behind that gravestone right now and stop   
acting like a wuss, I promise I won't kill you."  
  
Clem peeked over the gravestone. His red-eyed gaze nervously met   
Faith's dark one. He considered her for a long moment, then stepped   
from his hiding place. He brushed himself off, muttering, "I'm not a   
wuss."  
  
They searched but didn't find Dawn. Eventually they decided to split   
up. Anya and Clem continued searching...well, wherever they chose   
to search while Wesley and Faith would swung by The Bronze.   
  
They arrived just as The Bronze was closing its doors. A quick   
survey of what remained of the Friday night crowd ended with Faith   
dusting two vampires and Wesley decapitating a Kush'nik demon with a   
single blow of his ax. Wesley was quite handy with that ax. It was   
impressive. Really. But there was still no sign of the younger   
Summers girl.  
  
Four hours of searching resulted in their not finding a damn thing.   
Faith was frustrated and pissed and Wesley looked quite grim when   
they met Anya and Clem on the steps of the apartment building where   
Anya lived with Dawn.  
  
"Any luck?" Clem asked anxiously, and it really was disturbing how   
much like a pleading puppy he could look. He started to pace. "I   
should have told Dawnie to stop coming to the crypt. It wasn't   
safe. Do you think she is alright? She has to be alright."  
  
"Yeah, sure, alright. . . so I can kill her," Faith said darkly.  
  
Anya looked teary. "I don't think I could take someone else dy—"   
She stopped abruptly and climbed the steps. With a worried look on   
his face, Wesley followed Anya.  
  
"Shit," Faith said as she also climbed the stairs.   
  
When Anya opened the door to the apartment and Faith saw who was   
laying on the couch, her blood pressure skyrocketed. "I *am* going   
to kill her!" Marching over to the couch, Faith grabbed Dawn's   
arm. "Hey, brat, you been here all night?"  
  
Dawn pulled away, looking at the Slayer with shock. Then she   
collapsed back on the sofa and rubbed her sleepy-looking eyes. "What   
business is it of yours?"  
  
Wesley sat on the arm of the sofa. "We have been concerned about   
you."  
  
Clem nodded. "Yeah, Dawn. Real worried." He knelt in front of her,   
taking her hand between both of his…uh…whatever his hand-like things   
were. "You okay?"  
  
Dawn looked at the array of people and demons staring at her. "Sure,   
I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"  
  
"Well. . ." Wesley glanced at Faith and Anya before turning back to   
Dawn. "There is the small issue of Spike—"  
  
"Spike?" Dawn jumped to her feet. "Like he could bother me. He   
can't bother me. I don't give a damn about him. Why would I give a   
damn about him?"  
  
Anya took a step forward, "Dawn—"  
  
"Oh no, not you. You keep your paws off him. After—" Dawn   
sniffed. "He can't hurt me. I won't let him hurt me. He wasn't   
here when we needed him. Why should I give a damn? He broke his   
promise. He said he'd always take care of us, and he broke his   
promise. Well, I don't have to care, and I don't."   
  
Dawn stood in the middle of the living room, the picture of youthful   
defiance, as her gaze turned to the window. It hovered there for a   
moment before she asked in a soft, little voice, "What time is it?"  
  
"Very late," Anya said irritably as she collapsed into a chair which   
sat opposite the sofa. "And I wish to go to bed now." She started   
twisting the fringe of one of the throw pillows. "You know, now that   
I think about it, one of us should have stayed at the apartment in   
case Dawn came home."  
  
Faith looked at Wesley. "Yeah, why didn't you think of that?"  
  
His brows rose. "Why didn't I think about it?"  
  
"You *are* the Watcher," Anya pointed out. "Trained for logic."  
  
"Yeah, logic-boy, why didn't you think of it?" Faith's hands were on her hips.  
  
"Why I--"  
  
"What time is it?" Dawn quietly asked again as she continued to stare   
out the window. "It's almost dawn, isn't it?" She grabbed her   
jacket off the back of Anya's chair.  
  
"Where are you going now?" Anya demanded.  
  
"It's almost dawn. I. . .When I saw Spike, I told him about Buffy.   
You remember what happened the last time. . .you know. . . when Buffy   
di-- You know what happened last time."  
  
Anya frowned. Faith could see that the ex-demon was also concerned.   
Anya stood. "I think I should go with you, Dawn."  
  
"I don't want you near him!" Dawn yelled.  
  
"Dawn. It's not--"  
  
"I'll go," Faith volunteered.  
  
Wesley stood. "Faith and I will *both* go. And—" he glanced at Clem.  
  
Clem smiled amiably. "Way ahead of you."  
  
The four of them--Dawn, Wesley, Clem and Faith—made their way to the   
cemetery. Anya hadn't looked happy about being left behind.   
  
"Why exactly are we doing this?" Faith asked.  
  
"Because," Dawn answered in a complete non-answer.  
  
"Spike…uh…he can get real emotional," Clem explained. "Last time the   
Slayer… Well, Spike sort of almost. . ."  
  
"We had to drag Spike in out of the sun," Dawn said coldly.   
  
=And since when is vamp combustion is a bad thing?=   
  
Dawn came to a halt in the cemetery, and Faith turned to follow the   
direction of Dawn's gaze.   
  
Spike sat on the ground, his back set against a gravestone, a half-  
empty bottle of tequila at his side, and Buffy's gravestone a pile of   
rubble at his feet. "Cruel you've been—cruel and false," Spike   
slurred, clearly talking to Buffy's grave. "Why did you despise me?"   
  
He lifted the bottle and took a long drink. "I have not one word of   
comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself. You may kiss   
me, and cry; and wring out my kisses and tears: They'll blight you—  
they'll damn you." Another drink. "Misery and degradation and   
death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted   
us, but you, of your own free will did it."  
  
"Good lord," Wesley whispered.  
  
"Do I want to live? What kind of living will it be when you—oh God!   
Would you like to live with your soul in the grave?"  
  
"He's drunk!" Faith said with disgust.  
  
"He's quoting Wuthering Heights," Wesley said with surprise. "Verbatim."  
  
Spike hurled the bottle of tequila against the side of a crypt,   
shattering it so that glass and liquor mingled with the pile of stone   
that had once marked Buffy's grave. "I forgive what you have done to   
me. I love *my* murderer-—but *yours*? How can I?"  
  
Dawn nudged Wesley's shoulder. He looked at the girl and some silent   
communication seemed to pass between the two. Wes straightened his   
shoulders and approached the drunken vampire. "Okay, Heathcliff,   
let's move along. No use setting yourself on fire. At least not   
until we find out whether you deserve to be set on fire."  
  
Spike pushed the Watcher away—not hard, at least not for a vampire.   
Wes only stumbled back a few steps.  
  
Spike gazed at the other man with unfocused eyes. "Heathcliff stands   
unredeemed; never once swerving in his arrow-straight course to   
perdition. . ."  
  
"What the fuck?" Faith asked.  
  
"Now he's quoting Charlotte Bronte's introduction to Wuthering   
Heights. It was written posthumously, you know."  
  
"Heathcliff betrays one solitary human feeling." Spike staggered to   
his feet. "A fire that might form the tormented center—the ever   
suffering soul of a magnate of the infernal world: and by its   
quenchless and ceaseless ravage effect the execution of the decree   
which dooms him to carry Hell with him wherever he wanders."  
  
"Okay, does anyone have a clue what this crazy vampire is talking   
about?" Faith looked at Dawn and Clem. "Does any of this crap make   
sense to you?"  
  
"I think he's talking about being consumed by passion," Clem said.  
  
Spike yelled.  
  
"Or not," Clem amended.  
  
Spike wavered on his feet. "He was neither of Lascar nor gypsy, but a   
man's shape animated by demon life-—a ghoul-—an afreet."  
  
Faith shook Wesley's arm. "Is he still quoting this Charlotte chica?"  
  
"I believe so." Wesley looked at Spike with interest. "I wonder if   
he has a photographic memory."  
  
Spike passed out.  
  
"Thank God." Faith sighed. "That was. . . what the hell was that?"  
  
Dawn observed the lightening sky. It had changed from deep violet to   
soft pink while they had listened to Spike rave. "Maybe we should   
move him inside now."  
  
Faith and Wesley grabbed Spike by the arms and dragged him toward the   
crypt. Clem unlocked the door and pushed it open so they could dump   
him on the floor. Spike rolled over and groaned.   
  
Dawn stood in the doorway with her arms crossed in front of her. "We   
should just leave you outside to fry."  
  
"Why didn't you, Bit?"  
  
Dawn's angry expression faded. "That's not funny."  
  
"Wasn't tryin' to be." Spike pulled himself to his knees. "It's a   
waste of time, you know."  
  
"What is?"  
  
He stood, but it looked like it took effort. "All of it.   
Everything. It's all a waste of time." Spike rubbed his temple as   
if it pained him. "Pulling me out of the sun—"  
  
"I won't have you killing yourself too," Dawn snapped.   
  
"Dawn, Buffy didn't kill herself," Clem told her. "She was fighting   
an evil witch. Wasn't her fault she got killed."  
  
Dawn and Spike's gazes met. Faith could see that neither of them   
believed Clem's words. They were pretty sure that Buffy had lived   
out some death wish.   
  
Spike moved toward the door.   
  
"No!" Dawn yelled.  
  
"It's okay, Bit. It doesn't matter."  
  
"It does too matter. Spike, I know that a lot of stuff happened,   
but—"  
  
Spike pushed passed Dawn and walked out into the sunlight.  
  
"No!" Dawn screamed.   
  
"What the hell?" Faith asked.  
  
Spike stood in the light of the sunrise. . .and he wasn't on fire.  


TBC


End file.
